Cliff Cot, near ****, Monmouthshire. 1
MUCH has been done within the last fortnight, and your Olivia is now addressing you from a very humble cottage in a retired part of Monmouthshire! When I found that I was considered by Mr. George Merton, as living at his expense, during the time I continued at New Park, it required little resolution to form the determination of quitting it as soon as possible. I made my intention known to Mr. Lumley and desired him to bring Augustus acquainted with it. Mr. Lumley attempted to dissuade me—I was not to be moved.
“Hear me, my good friend,” said I, “and you will agree with me in the propriety of my resolve. To be indebted to the ostentatious generosity of the Mertons, for such a situation as this, is impossible! I believe the law might give them my fortune, and I have a spirit which disdains to enter into a litigation:—and without him , who, once cheered every scene to me, this house would be a gloomy prison!—Ah, Mr. Lumley! that cottage at the park-gate, that little cottage, would contain the love of Augustus; and that would be a palace of content. But I must drive such vain ideas from my mind! Am I not acting a very selfish part, Mr. Lumley, by remaining here? I am the barrier which separates Augustus from his—!” (I could not utter the word); “because misfortune and irremediable suffering have overtaken me, shall I continue to blight the prospects of all those around me? No!—I trust I have a better heart. If I cannot be happy myself, I will not retard the happiness of others!”
I sighed deeply, and weak “womanish tears, * almost blinded my eyes, at the moment when I made these (I trust) virtuous resolves. My tears were infectious; the good rector wiped his eyes.
“Oh, come here, ye prejudiced, narrow-minded beings!” said he, apostrophizing from the feelings of the moment, and entirely losing the idea of my presence in them:— “Oh come hither, ye advocates for slavery!—ye who talk of the inferiority of reason, which attends a difference of colour,—oh, come here! and see a woman,—a young—a tender woman, who, in the contemplation of her own unparalleled misfortunes, and with a heart almost broken by affliction, yet rises with unexampled pre-eminence of virtue!— See here a conquest over self, which ye would vainly try to imitate!”
“Ah! my good sir,” said I, “I know what is right, and I trust the Almighty will support me in the due performance of it. I had a glorious example in my mother, Mr. Lumley.—My mother, though an African slave, when once she had felt the power of that holy religion which you preach, from that hour she relinquished him, who had been dearer to her than existence! And shall I then shrink from a conflict which she sustained? Shall I not go on, upheld by an approving conscience, and the bright hope of futurity?”
IN CONTINUATION
I HAD seen a cottage advertised to be let in Monmouthshire, which seemed to meet my wishes, with regard to the retiredness of the situation, and its size, which, from the printed description, was diminutive enough; thither I wished to bend my course, and, previous to the above conversation with Mr. Lumley, I had written to make inquiries concerning it. In the interim, I understood from him, that Augustus had received a very angry letter from his father, accusing him of the most criminal intentions in concealing his former marriage, and pointing to this as the cause of all the distressing events which had ensued. Mr. Merton ended, by disclaiming all interest or connexion with him; and he bade him seek that maintenance for his wife and child by his own exertions, of which he was justly deprived in every other way.
I also received a letter from each of the Mr. Mertons. My uncle condoled with me in a very polite and complimentary style
1 Olivia possibly alludes to Hubert’s wavering emotions when he is faced with the duty of blinding Arthur in William Shakespeare’s King John : “I must be brief lest resolution / Drop out of mine eyes in tender womanish tears” (IV.i.37-8).
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on my “ recent distress:”—talked of my fortitude and strength of mind, and offered me all the service and advice in his power, and subscribed himself, as usual, my very affectionate uncle! The professions of Mr. George were a vast deal more diffuse (I shall enclose both the letters); it was plain that he considered himself as the master of my future fate, and after bidding me not to despond, but to be reconciled to my misfortune, he ended with almost commanding me to come to London, and to place myself under the protection of Mrs. George Merton!
Disdaining to receive even pretended favours from such hands, I did not answer this letter; but replying to my uncle, I made him acquainted with my intentions in regard to my future mode of life, and voluntarily relinquished all further claim to my father’s fortune, if he would secure to me, from his son, fifty pounds every three months. This, I said, would secure a maintenance for myself and Dido, and I wished for nothing further.
The earliest post brought me a fifty pound bank note, as an advanced quarter, from Mr. George Merton, with his promise of remitting the like sum every three months. The account of Cliff cottage was satisfactory; I settled to take it by letter; and ere we mentioned that we had fixed on a place of residence, Dido had privately began to pack up my wardrobe. The jewels which had been presented to me on my marriage by Mr. Merton, it was my firm resolve to give to Mrs. Augustus Merton; I had also a great curiosity to see her, and I resolved to be the bearer of them myself!
In the course of my melancholy tale, I feel that I hurry over some occurrences, while on others I am unnecessarily diffuse; but you will impute these seeming inconsistencies of style to their real cause. But as I am now sat down in one unvaried routine of solitude, and as writing employs my time, if it does not amuse it, I will endeavour to be as particular in my narrative as I can.
God bless you, my dear madam !—till to-morrow I must throw aside my pen.
OLIVIA FAIRFIELD.
IN CONTINUATION
WITH the approach of misfortune, my summer friends flew off. I imagine that Miss Danby had given out at the Pagoda, that my fortune was forfeited to Mr. George Merton,—and to trample - on the fallen, is no new trait in the character of the Ingots. I received a pompous and pedantic note from her ladyship, where, after condoling with me on my reverse of fortune, she advised me to go out to the East Indies, where, with my accomplishments, she
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doubted not but my colour would be overlooked, and, by a feigned name , I might soon form an advantageous matrimonial connexion.
I should imagine that the crimson was the predominant colour in my cheek as I perused this vile scroll, which finished with an offer of protection , and letters of introduction at Bengal, from Sir Marmaduke, if I approved the plan. I threw the note into the fire, and sent word to the servant who brought it, that it required no answer. The next piece of penmanship I shall transcribe verbatim.
“My dear Madam,
“NONE of your friends have more sincerely sympathized with your feelings on a recent occasion than myself, and I should not have contented myself without personally offering you compliments of condolence, had I not been informed that you were still confined by indisposition to your room; but, lest you should engage in any future plan which may prove an obstacle to my tenderest wishes, I avail myself of this method of offering you my protection. I have been for some time in quest of a companion who could interest my heart; fate has now propitiously blessed me with an opportunity of offering my adoration at that shrine, where my warmest admiration has been attracted, since I had first the honour of being introduced to your acquaintance. Your own terms shall be mine—our connexion shall be kept an inviolable secret from the whole world if you wish it, though, for myself, I disclaim all the prejudices of society, and should not scruple, a moment, to avow myself the zuarm admirer of a Woman of Colourl I remain, most unalterably,
“Your much attached, and Devoted servant,
“ROLANDO SINGLETON.”
Not even to Mr. Lumley could I prevail on myself to relate this insult.—Alas! I feared not for myself; but had Augustus heard of it, his indignant spirit would have fired, and the consequences might have been dreadful. Silence, a proud silence, I have observed on this disgraceful subject, except to you. I feared even to put my resentment into words, in addressing the colonel, lest by any means it should transpire; and I trust this sapient hero will construe the silence of the Woman of Colour into utter contempt.—
But, oh! how slight do these insults appear from the proud and the unprincipled, when contrasted with my real source of dis-' tress! The whole world is to me as nothing; its applause or its censure would alike be disregarded by me: though I trust I shall ever retain strength and resolution to act, so as not to deserve the latter, though I may not inherit the former!
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IN CONTINUATION
EVERY thing was prepared for my journey into Monmouthshire, I had not revealed my determination to a single person, save my faithful Dido. I dreaded the persuasive entreaties of Mr. Lumley; I dreaded the affectionate sorrow of Caroline and ofWaller; I dreaded to hear of the distracting emotions of Augustus!
The evening preceding the day of my departure at length arrived. I resolved to walk across the park, and to visit my innocent rival; perhaps there was something of romance in this resolution, but I had determined on it; I longed to behold this (to me) most interesting of females; I wished to show her that I retained no illiberal prejudices against her; therefore putting the casket in my pocket, which contained my intended present, and flinging my shawl round my shoulders, I sallied forth. My soul seemed armed with a gloomy sort of resolution; the evening was in unison with the feelings of my mind, it was cold and stormy; the quick receding clouds as they passed above me, now illuming, now shading my way, presaged a coming storm. The park was damp, the branches of the trees lay on the ground; it seemed as if even the inanimate objects had felt the recent shock which had shattered my nerves, and were mourning the wreck of happiness: the wild thought was soothing to my soul, yet I felt that my recent convalescence prevented my walking with my usual step—now firm, now unsteady and feeble. I more than once tottered to a tree, and held by it to support me, while I recovered breath to proceed; when, turning to cast a look at the house, from a point of view where Augustus and I had always been used to admire it together, I heard a hasty and approaching step, from a copse of underwood which was near me;—the little gate fell, and Augustus stood before me!—pale, wan, his hair dishevelled, his whole form forcibly proclaiming the extent of his late sufferings!—I started on seeing him.
“Oh, best—most injured of women!” said he, clasping his hands wildly together, and flitting by me as he spoke.—
“Augustus!” said I, for my resolutions returned with the pressure of the moment; “Augustus! and do you then fly me?”
“And can you for a moment bear my hateful presence?” asked he, quickly returning, but his countenance evincing the agony of * his mental conflict.
“Yes, I thank God that I can!” said I, “though I did not seek this interview; yet will I not shun it, but rather rejoice in the opportunity which is thus accidentally afforded me, of assuring
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you that I feel not the slightest spark of resentment towards you; that I will fervently beseech Heaven for your future happiness, and pray that you may forget that there exists such a being as myself!”
“And can you do this? Incomparable creature! can you do this?” said Augustus, as he threw himself on his knees before me, and franticly seized my hand!
“Yes,” cried I; “I can do more than this, if you will not unnerve my resolution, by thus giving way to the excess of your feelings!— Pray, I entreat you, rise Mr. Fairfield.”
“Fairfield!—alas!” said he, “I no longer bear that honoured name; I am unworthy to bear the name which belongs to you\”
“Whatever name you bear,” said I, “I shall always consider you as friend,—you shall always be regarded in my memory with esteem.”
“Kill me not by such kindness; reproach, accuse, revile me; call me base destroyer of your fame, your peace, and I will plead guilty to it all—but in mercy spare me from those words of softness, which are sharper, which cut deeper here,” laying his hand on his heart, “than pointed arrows!”
“Rise, pray rise!” said I; “this posture ill befits me to allow, or you to retain—Pray, Augustus, exert yourself, re-assume your self-possession; fancy you are talking to a friend from whom you are going to he separated for a long period; a friend who takes this opportunity of lamenting, that the transitions of fortune prevent her from demonstrating her regard in any stronger way than words.”—
“ The transitions of fortune\ ” repeated he, stamping his foot with vehemence on the ground, “say, rather, the hellish machinations, the sordid avarice of perfidious fiends of malice!—Oh, Olivia, amiable, revered Olivia! how may you regret the day when you left your native island!—better to have been landed on a savage shore of barbarians, than to have found, as you have done, your bitterest enemies, in uncle, brother, husband! those names which, in the common lot of human life, are associated with all that is affectionate and tender!”
“Oh!” said I, the tears rolling over my face, and wringing my
hands in agony, “let me entreat you to leave me Augustus, if you
will thus add to my distress. I thought I had acquired fortitude to
sustain any trial, but, indeed , if you will thus give way to useless . . .
recrimination, you will make me as frantic as yourself!”
“Oh, pardon—pardon!” said he; “I know not what I do, or what I say!”
“Come with me,” said I, once more reassuming some appearance of composure; “come with me.”
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“Whither?” asked he.
“I am going to visit your Angelina!”
Augustus staggered as he held my hand—his cheek was blanched—he looked at me— never can I forget the expression of entranced admiration and surprise, which his features underwent.
“Can you be serious, Olivia—Do I touch your hand? do I feel your throbbing pulse? or are you not a being of ethereal mold?”
“Alas! a very mortal!” I exclaimed; “but, anxious to behold your Angelina, to love her for your sake, to look at your little boy—and to tell your wife, that I will pray for her and your felicity—I have determined on going to her, and let us go together, my friend!”—The big tear rolled down his cheek.
“I have not seen—I have not been at the cottage since that day—that never-to-be-forgotten day.”
“I know it,” said I; “Mr. Lumley has acquainted me with your self-command and forbearance, and it is your example which has excited my emulation—Come, you cannot refuse to go with me— but remember, that though you have seen me overcome by the sight of your self-upbraidings, together with the sudden surprise of this interview, I am not going to overwhelm Angelina with a picture of my sufferings, and enhance a sacrifice to her, which I am constrained to make.—No! I am going to speak comfort to her, by telling her that I hope soon to regain my own tranquillity, and that it is my earnest hope that her re-union with her husband may be lasting and uninterrupted.”
“Where could you acquire such heroism, such generosity of soul?” asked Augustus; “from whence do you derive such unexampled magnanimity?”
“When the mind is thoroughly impressed with the consciousness of a super-intending Providence,” said I, “it is taught to submit patiently to all its chastisements. ‘Sweet, are the uses of adversity ,’ 1 if it teaches us to amend our lives!”
“ Amend !” said Augustus, “how is perfection to be amended?”
“Ah!” said I, “flatter me no longer with praise which I must never more hear—perhaps, even in this instance, I have erred— perhaps, I was too much elated by your approbation—perhaps, in the redundance of my happiness, I forgot that this was not my abiding place; and by timely chastisement I shall be brought back to a knowledge of myself!”
“If you can thus find any reason for self-accusation,” said Augustus, “what must I feel , who am conscious that it was owing
to my clandestine concealment of my early marriage, that my enemies plotted my ruin, and cruelly produced this desolation?
“That your secrecy in this respect was wrong,” said I, “must be allowed; but by the faults of the past take a warning with respect to the future!”
“I can hardly ask it” said he; “but if at a future hour, I should have resolution to write down the events which led to this sad catastrophe, will you deign to read the history with candour and lenity, for I feel that to the character of Angelina Forrester I owe this explanation!”
“I will read it with all the indulgence you can wish,” said I, “for I have already acquitted you in my mind.”
“Generous—generous Olivia!” said he.—
“The Lumleys will always know my residence,” said I; “to them you may safely consign the packet—”
“The Lumleys ?” returned Augustus; “and must I then remain in ignorance of it?— will you seclude yourself from me? shall I never be informed of your health, of your welfare?—shall I constantly be accusing myself as the destroyer of your peace?—shall my tortured imagination be eternally haunting me with the remembrance of your misery?”
“Pray talk more rationally,” said I; “a correspondence with you must be declined for both —for all our sakes; the sooner you forget me the better; the sooner I—” I stopped, I checked the unbidden sigh, I wiped off the involuntary tear and proceeded— “Augustus, you have not yet learned to know me. It is part of my religious duty to endeavour to resign myself to the all-wise dispensations of the Most High. I scruple not to own to you, that, as my husband, I loved you with the warmest affection; that tie no longer exists, it is now become my duty to force you from my heart,—painful, difficult I acknowledge this to be, for your virtues had enthroned you there! But this world is not our abiding place. I look forwards with faith and hope to that eternally happy state where there is neither ‘marrying nor giving in marriage ,’ 1 where there shall be no more sorrow, and where ‘all tears shall be wiped away from all eyes !’” 2
“Heavenly, heavenly Olivia!” said Augustus, “I could now reverence thee as a beatified spirit!—Oh, how weak must I appear in your eyes!”
We had now reached the cottage door—Ah, Mrs. Milbanke!
with what different sensations had I last approached it! I involuntarily shuddered as the hollow sound of the knocker reverberated, as before, through the little dwelling—My feelings, as I entered the parlour, where sat Angelina at work, her sweet little boy playing at her side on the carpet, it would be impossible to describe; or to portray the conflicting emotions, and the animated transports, of the re-united wife and husband! While the gentle, the trembling Angelina hid her face, and poured her tears into her husband’s bosom, I caught the innocent resemblance of Augustus to mine, and poured my caresses on him, that I might not appear as though I grudged them their happiness. The gratitude, the bashful timidity of Angelina, her dove-like eyes, her transparent complexion, the delicacy of her fragile form, all rendered her a most interesting object. She seems peculiarly to require the assistance and support of the lordly creature man, and to be ill-calculated for braving the difficulties of life alone. The speechless astonishment with which she received my present of the jewels, I shall never forget. I could have said, “‘These radiant gems which banish happiness but mock misfortune, I can easily relinquish” 1 —but I contented myself with plainly desiring her to convert them to any purpose which she should deem most beneficial, and lamented that I had nothing better worth her acceptance to offer; then turning to Augustus, I said, “That your father will relent, and again receive you into his favour, I do not doubt, else should I be sorry that I had stipulated only for a maintenance for myself out of my father’s fortune; but you know the delicacy of my situation, and will see that, with propriety, I could not assist you.”
“I know that you always act with consistency, with unexampled feeling, and consideration,” said Augustus.
I feared that he was again going to forget himself; I started up,
I placed the little Augustus in his father’s arms, then taking his tiny hand, and joining it with both his parents, I said, “May heaven protect, and bless you all! May my fervent prayers be' heard for your happiness!” and before any thing reached my ear, save the sigh of Augustus, I had quitted the house, and was once more in the park! I do not take any merit to myself, my dear Mrs. Milbanke, from having made this exertion—I was in some sort actuated by a romantic and curious spirit, and I felt relieved at * _______
1 William Shenstone, “Love and Honour” (1764). The correct wording is “These radiant gems which burnish happiness / But mock misfortune, to thy fav’rite’s hand / With care convey.”
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having seen Angelina, and having beheld in her a woman who was likely to form the happiness of the husband who I must for ever relinquish!
IN CONTINUATION
A FORMAL parting with the Lumleys was not to be thought of; I wrote my adieus, my grateful thanks for their kindness. A note I wrote also to the good Mr. Bellfield, in which I lamented that my reverse of fortune prevented my exerting myself in the behalf of Waller and his Caroline; and said, “that it had been the sanguine wish of Augustus, as well as myself, to see them happy in each other.” I thanked the good Bellfield for the friendly sympathy he had evinced for me, and told him, that from his example I would learn a lesson on heroism! These painful duties over, I knelt at the throne of mercy; I besought the Almighty to give me courage to bear the stroke of adversity, and to arm my mind with a portion of his divine grace!
At an early hour in the morning, a hired chaise drew up, and, followed by the weeping Dido, I entered it. All the servants stood to catch a view of me as I walked across the hall; they reverenced my sorrows: but I heard their whispered prayers and blessings as I passed. I waved my hand in token of my thanks, and hurried into the carriage: there I gave way to the oppressive feelings of my heart, while Dido wrung her hands together, and sobbed at my side. The park, the lofty trees, the little cottage, its happy inmate, every animate, every inanimate object, added to my distress. I saw the little school which I had projected—the children which I had clothed—the peasants whom I had assisted. I recollected all the plans of long years of peace and comfort which I had laid, and, shuddering at my own temerity, I felt as if the Almighty had said to me those awful words, “Thou fool! this night thy soul shall be required of thee !” 1 For was it not nearly so? was not my husband my heart’s idol—my bosom’s sovereign?—Oh, Mrs. Milbanke! perhaps I loved him too much—perhaps “it is good for me to have been thus afflicted !” 2
You will accuse me of having formed a harsh judgement, in having condemned Mrs. George Merton, without a proof, in the beginning of this narration; but, assured of her long and irreconcilable enmity to them, Augustus and Angelina, are convinced ' that she has been the prime agent of this plot against us all. Dis
appointed vanity, and craving ambition, two powerful incentives in the mind, where they are encouraged, urged her to work their ruin. But though this is completed in her idea, and though she may revel and smile on the money she has thus unjustly gained, yet their happiness is not dependent on outward circumstances; it is seated in their minds, and in their mutual affection, which she cannot deprive them of: and when she hears of their humble content, she may make the comparison between it and her own restless grandeur.
IN CONTINUATION.
INDEED, I could be very happy in this little cottage did I not remember “such things were, and were most pleasant to me ;” 1 and did not Dido constantly bewail the change in a loud and clamorous grief, which, entirely divested of self, on my account will not be appeased. In vain I tell her, that if two courses were before me, I should prefer our boiled mutton;—she cries and shakes her head. I assure her that my little parlour is quite large enough. She asks if I recollect the “nice large rooms at Fairfield estate, and at Kingston?” She still pines for the “flesh-pots of Egypt ,” 2 but not herself, but only for “dear Missee.”
“For Dido would live upon salt herrings and rice all the long year round, if she could but see Mr. Fairfield’s daughter served any way like herself.”
And the Monmouthshire girl whom we have hired as a drudge, is taught to consider me as a princess, at least, and must not dare to enter the parlour on any account, or to answer the bell, on pain of losing her place; so that, quite scared when she sees me, she drops fifty courtesies in a minute, and runs into some corner, with her back pinned against the wall, to let my high mightiness pass along. With the earliest dawn poor Dido leaves her pillow, in order to see my breakfast prepared for me as I have been used to have it. The various ways that she tries to allure me to eat; the various cakes and little dainties
which she prepares, without my knowledge, to tempt my palate, would make you smile, who know my a/zuajAS-temperate appetite. But how can I be angry with this well-meant and affectionate attention? The body and mind of poor Dido are, however, so unceasingly engaged, that I fear her strength will fail—and miserable in the extreme should I be, if I lost my faithful girl, and was conscious that she had been the victim of her attachment to her mistress.
IN CONTINUATION
MINE is a very snug habitation; it is a thatched cottage on the side of a hill, which commands a noble view of the Wye , 1 and the picturesque country which adorns its windings. I understand that this country is not so retired as I had imagined; many gentlemen’s seats are dispersed about the neighbourhood; their owners attracted by its wild and romantic scenery. An humble inhabitant of a lowly tenement like mine, is, how-ever, likely to pass unnoticed, and a woman of colour will not be a courted object. I wish to be unobserved—I do not want society—for although there is no real disgrace attached to my very peculiar situation, yet there is some appearance of it. I do not conceal my name; I contemn all mystery: and I never can voluntarily relinquish the beloved, the honoured name of Fairfield!—Believe me, my dear Mrs. Milbanke, I do not resign myself to a state of fruitless and blameable despondency.—No! I thank God, I keep myself employed; I endeavour to interest myself in my pursuits; I work in my little garden; I walk where I see a retired hut of poverty, and I try to do a little good to my fellow beings, even in my present narrow sphere. The blessings of constant employment I take to be a secret as well worth knowing as the philosopher’s stone; it is a remedy for most of the evils of life. Had I the instruction of youth, my first, my last words should be, “rational employment ;” 2 for what ills, what mischiefs, daily spring from idleness!
I brought my books with me. I have scrupulously avoided opening one of a melancholy cast, while those of a cheerful and heart-inspiring turn I have selected for my parlour companions.
I feel my sallow cheek glow with satisfaction, knowing, that in this description of myself, I am pleasing my maternal friend. It is by her precepts that her Olivia has been enabled to stem the current of adversity; and the grateful child of her forming, must always rejoice in her affectionate approbation of her conduct!
IN CONTINUATION
I HAVE had a letter from Caroline Lumley; her style is as affectionate as her heart is sincere. She tenderly reproaches me for leaving New Park without seeing her; yet acknowledges that the pain of separation was spared to them all. She slightly glances at Augustus; and tells me, he has for the present taken up his residence at the cottage: that it is rumoured that Mr. George Merton means to retain the park as a summer residence.
“I hope not,” says the ingenuous girl; “for indeed, my dear madam, such a neighbour could give us no pleasant ideas.”
With the utmost simplicity she tells me, that her walks have never extended beyond the boundaries of her father’s glebe, since I have quitted the neighbourhood. I understand from this, that she has not yet lain her prejudices aside, and visited Angelina, as I desired she would. Augustus has sent regularly to the rectory, to hear if they have had any tidings of me; and they had sent him the intelligence of my safe arrival at my new residence.
I have thus given you the heads of this affectionate girl’s letter. It is delightful to be esteemed by those who are worthy, and I feel much comfort in the friendship which follows me with so much kindness into this retirement!
No incident occurs, worth relating, the monotonous life which I lead at present, yet I shall not cease to scribble my dear friend.
OLIVIA FAIRFIELD
[As the journal of the ensuing month does not offer any thing which requires insertion, we shall omit it, and go on to a period more material.]
IN CONTINUATION
CAROLINE LUMLEY writes me, that Augustus has been sent for, express, to London. That it is reported that his father is
and failings of others may meet from you with compassion and forbearance” (Lecture XXVI, Vol. 2, 226). See also Charles Allen’s The Polite Lady: or a Course of Female Education in a Series of Letters (London: Printed for Newbery and Carnan, 1769) 130.
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dying; that he has taken Angelina and his boy with him; and that the cottage is shut up. May the Almighty soften Mr. Merton s heart—may his forgiveness reach the ear of his son, and pave the way to his own forgiveness from a heavenly Father and may he provide for the innocent Angelina and her unoffending offspring!
I shall be most anxious to hear the result of this visit. I wrote to Caroline by the return of the post, and charged her to give me the earliest intelligence which should reach her. Surely my uncle will be reconciled to Augustus—surely he will make a provision for his son!
IN CONTINUATION
DID I not tell you, some time ago, that my poor Dido looked wan and dispirited, and that I attributed it to the effects of her zealous and arduous exertions for me? To-day she is all cheerful hilarity. She walks about with her head erect, as is usual with her when labouring with any pleasing intelligence, of which she chooses to make a temporary concealment. Were you to observe her mysterious, yet consequential looks, you must be diverted; for, in spite of the solemnity which she tries to assume, I perceive that she is constantly pursing up her thick lips, to prevent their widening into a smile of satisfaction. I see a pleasing surprise is in store for her dear Missee; perhaps a fine dessert, or some favourite flowers: whatever it be, I must try to evince my gratitude by a pleased reception of her favour.
IN CONTINUATION
OH, Dido, Dido! my faithful, yet mistaken girl, into what a situation hast thou put thy mistress! and yet I cannot chide thee.—
I will recount to you, dearest madam, the surprise, and the conflicting emotions which I have just experienced. Devoid of curiosity, and wishing to live unknowing as well as unknown, I had not inquired the names of my nearest neighbours; all were alike strangers to me: and consequently a mere name could afford me neither knowledge nor information. Dido, I suspect, had been more inquisitive: she had more than once spoken of a “sweet, pretty house near the cliff,” and had told me there was “one good gentleman in Monmouthshire.” I usually answered her, that I hoped there were many here, as well as in other parts' of the world, and I never indulged her loquacity, in point of local communications; feeling a satisfaction in maintaining my ignorance , which was an undefinable sensation even to myself. Dido has no small portion of superstition, and has laid up carefully all
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those signs and omens which she has gleaned from the English servants while in Devonshire. She has several times seen a stranger in the fire, and a friend in my tea-cup', I used to smile at her simple predictions, knowing that I was expected to notice them: but little imagining that, by these predictions, she was in reality preparing me for the reception of a visitor, and one, too, of her own inviting!
Yesterday morning, Dido seemed usually officious at my toilette; she would attend it through, although I several times told her I did not need her assistance; and when I came into the parlour, I thought it looked unusually decorated with flowers. She several times remarked, that it was a very fine day, and sweet, pleasant weather; and I guessed that she wished to lure me to a walk: but not feeling inclined to go out, I seated myself at my work, and, I will freely confess, had engaged in a train of rumination which had wetted it with the tears which fell from my eyes, when I heard a treble, but soft, rap at the door of the cottage. Though an unusual sound, it did not alarm me, as the villagers do not understand the different gradations of a rap, - like a London footman, till I heard the stifled whisper of Dido in the passage, and in the next minute saw her open the door of the room, and usher in Mr. Honeywood! Though much altered, paler, thinner, and in deep mourning, I could not forget him.— But, alas! I could not receive him as once I should have done; my emotions nearly over-powered me, and I sat down on the chair; my trembling limbs refused to support me; I covered, my face with my hands, and burst into tears! Honeywood’s agitation seemed very little inferior to mine.
“Oh, heavens!” cried he, in a voice that was tremulous from emotion, “is it thus we meet again? Pardon my abrupt intrusion, dearest—” (he seemed at a loss for my title, and added, after a short pause,) “Madaml I have heard your whole history from your faithful Dido,” said he: “by turns I have rejoiced in your happiness, mourned over your sorrows, and been entranced with admiration at your superior fortitude and resignation! Oh! why— why were you the best and gentlest of human beings? why were you the appointed victim of such unparalleled sufferings?”
“My friend,” said I, now resuming my courage, “it is not for us, narrow-sighted beings as we are, to inquire into the dispensations of an all-wise and all-just God! Afflictions fit us for another world—for a state of enjoyment; they make us eager to quit these scenes of transient sorrow, and to go to the regions of eternal bliss!”
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“And there,” said Honeywood, with enthusiasm, “if superior reward be the allotment of superior virtue, there, in transcendent happiness—”
He stopped abruptly—“No,” said he, “my heart refuses to complete the picture —it would still chain thee to earth! Olivia, talk not of dyingl What! the tender maid, who lately crossed with me the world of waters,— that time of ever-to-be-regretted felicity,—she whose spirits, whose health, whose youth, whose genius, whose fortune, whose situation, whose connexions,—all promised long years of happiness,—she to turn already to the grave, as to her only resting place? Oh, it cannot—it shall not be!’
“No,” said I, “I am content, even now, to wait my allotted time on earth without murmuring; but, my spirits depressed; my health weakened; youth prematurely flying away; my genius (if any I had) entirely damped; my fortune changed; my situation strangely singular, and isolated from my connexions; you must allow that life has not much to hold out to me.”
“Oh! I know—I know it all,—I feel it here!” said Honeywood, laying his hand with emphatic fervour on his heart; “and, since I lost my parent, ’tis the bitterest pang I ever felt!”—and he walked round the room in wild disorder.
“Mr. Honeywood,” said I, calming my emotions, “you have sought this interview; and the sympathy which you indulge for me, assures me of your friendly regard: then hear me assure you, that you see my sufferings in too strong a light. Overpowered by surprise, and the rushing remembrances which visited my heart at the moment of your entrance, I gave way to a transient weakness; but, believe me, I do not usually yield thus supinely to my feelings. I thank God, that the knowledge of my own innocence, and that of—of him , from whom I am separated for ever”—I sighed,—my sigh was echoed by deep-drawn one from Honeywood— “and the comforts of religion have supported me, and do continue to support me, in patient cheerfulness. I am not without my resources or my avocations; I can find employment, and I visit my poor, though I pass by on the other side of my rich neighbours. I have a sufficiency for all my wants.”
“A sufficiency!” interrupted Honeywood, “the nightly depredator is not so base a plunderer as is George Merton; he steals from strangers, from aliens whom he knows not—whom he cares not for. But Merton, the robber of the orphan—of his nearest relative—of a young—a tender female,—curses light on his head!”
“Oh, I must not hear you talk thus,” said I; “rather may repen
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tance visit his heart\ But you know me not, Mr. Honeywood, if you think that the mere loss of my property has given me a moment s uneasiness.—Alas! in the bankrupt of the affections, in the entire desolation of the tenderest feelings of the heart, a pecuniary thought could never gain entrance into the mind, when he when he too suffers poverty, I am well contented to be not rich.”
Honeywood looked at me, for a moment, with the utmost surprise; his whole frame seemed to experience a revulsion; his agitation was excessive; he advanced eagerly towards me; he seized my hand,
Olivia! dearest, beloved Olivia!” and he sank at my knees, “oh, forgive the question! pity my despair,—my agony, and answer it—I conjure you answer me with your known candour! you loved—you loved Augustus?”
“More than my life\” answered I, with emphasis. “Yes, Mr. Honeywood, I glory in the acknowledgement; for he possessed every virtue and every quality to interest the heart!”
Honeywood clasped both his hands together; then he seized mine—he bathed them in tears.
“And do you try to conquer this imperious passion?” asked he, looking earnestly, and with a scrutinizing expression, in my face.
“Assuredly I do,” replied I, “as much as is possible. I drive from my remembrance the few months of happiness—the fleeting months I passed in Devonshire; but there are times when ‘busy meddling memory ’ 1 returns with barbarous power, to give a new edge to prevailing retrospections!”
“But with no reciprocation of attachment, no congeniality of sentiment, could your delicate, your sensitive mind be satisfied with a widowed heart, with—”
“That the warmest affections of Augustus were lain (as he believed) in the tomb of his lost wife, was true; but in the tender friendship of Augustus Merton, I had nothing to lament. I,—but why—why draw me into this needless recapitulation—into this strange confession? Sacred were my feelings; why—why disturb them, with unhallowed hand?”
“Why, indeed!” said Mr. Honeywood.—“Oh, Olivia! vain would I have concealed from you at this interview the purpose
with which my heart is fraught; but, forced as it is from me by the tumultuous sensations of the moment, hear me say,—that I love you beyond all earthly beings!—Hear me tell you, that on board the ****, while daily present with you—while listening to your melodious voice—to your noble sentiments—to the delicate purity of your conversation, I drank deep draughts of a passion which was violent as it was hopeless. Vainly did reason and reflection urge me to break my bonds; I loved my fetters, and, to contemplate on your dear idea, to turn with retrospective eye on those blissful hours of friendly intercourse was my utmost pleasure; even when I knew that you were to become the wife of another; even when I knew that duty and propriety bade me fly your presence! The loss of my ever-to-be-lamented mother, though it plunged me in sorrow, did not erase your image from my heart; I still remembered how you had, in the soft voice of friendship, tried to prepare me for this cruel stroke; and on retiring to this sequestered country, you were still the sylvan goddess of the shades I visited ,—you were the benign genius of all my avocations! My fortune was greatly increased by a most unlooked-for circumstance; but of what use to me were this world’s goods, isolated from her, who only could give them a charm? I heard of your happiness—of your felicity; I breathed fervent prayers for its continuance.—I hope I did not envy your husband. Think,—oh judge, then, my astonishment, my wonder, let me add, my sorrow, when I met your faithful black, and heard her tale of woe!— Olivia, Heaven is my witness, that in sympathizing in your afflictions, not a thought of self intruded at that hour. But now, oh dearest, amiable Olivia! if a life devoted to your happiness; if a fortune devoted to your service; if a love, a reverence, an admiration, unbounded as they are sincere, can move you to pity, oh, hear my suit!—deign, oh deign to pity me! forgive the seeming impetuosity of this declaration! feelings such as mine are not to he controlled! You are free, you are unfettered;—I may now, with pride; with glory, avow, that I doat on you to distraction; that your recent trials in the hard school of adversity have heightened (oh, how highly heightened!) you in my esteem; and that the pity of Olivia Fairfield would be more precious to me, than the love of any other woman!” *
This rapid address, so unexpected, delivered with such enthusiasm, such fervour, bewildered and astonished me. I seemed to gasp for breath, and could only find strength to interpose at this moment.
“My pity, believe me, you have: sensible as you appear of the
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indelicacy of your present avowal, I will forbear to make any comments upon it. You have frequently told me, that mine is a decided character—”
Oh stop, look not so determined, have mercy, gentlest, sweetest Olivia!” cried he, almost distractedly seizing my hand.
The skilful surgeon, said I, “probes deep, the more speedily to heal the wound. I now, and to the last moment of my existence, shall consider myself the widowed wife of Augustus Merton!”
Honeywood let go my hand; he let his head rest on the table, hiding his face.
“My good friend,” said I, “exert your resolution, nor let a woman be your superior in this quality. I have suffered, Mr. Honeywood, but I have struggled to sustain my sufferings with fortitude, and with consistency of character. Consider my situation, impartially and coolly, and see if I should not suffer in your opinion, were I to act in any way but the one I have fixed on; that one which my judgement approves, and which my heart must ever ratify!”
“Cruel, inexorable Olivia!”
“Not cruel,” said I; “more cruel would it be to give you hopes which I could never realize.”
“But surely, then,” said Honeywood, after a silence of some minutes, “you will allow me your friendship—you will let me try to be instrumental to your happiness—you will let me renew our former delightful intercourse? Here, in this sequestered nook, let me try to cheer your solitary hours, to guide your steps in the evening ramble, to follow your benevolent impulse in your charitable visits to the neighbouring cottages!”
“Surely, Mr. Honeywood, you forget what you were asking me;—your regard for me is, I am sure, of a disinterested nature!”
“If I know my own heart!” said he, laying his hand upon it.
“ Then,” said I, “you will rather deny yourself a trifling gratification than injure my character. Consider the appearance that it would have, if I were to admit your visits, secluded as I am from all other society.”
“The appearance \—and does Olivia regard appearances? She whose conduct could stand proclaimed before men and angels— shall she become the victim of a name—a nothing—shall she—?”
“Pray stop, Mr. Honeywood; in your eager warmth, you forget that you are arguing only from the disappointment of your own feelings; for, believe me, my ease and comfort would depend on my not being subjected (or rather in my not subjecting myself) to the malevolent sarcasms of the world!”
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“If you so lightly hold my friendship if you can so coolly forbid my visits,” said he—“Oh, Olivia! could I but make you sensible of what I suffer at this moment, when I hear you refuse every thing that I propose—when you will not let me be of service to you—when I have not the power of evincing the sincerity of my professions!”
“I believe them all,” said I; “and they make exactly that impression which they should on a woman, who has plighted vows of eternal fealty to another!—Honeywood, farewel! Take with you my thanks—my gratitude—my sincere esteem!”
“You drive me from you?” said he.—“Oh, Olivia! who can resist your commands?—May heaven bless and preserve you! May peace revisit your bosom! May your heart never experience those pangs, which now are piercing mine!”
Then, suddenly lifting my hand to his heart—to his lips—and to his forehead, he let it fall on my lap, and rushed out of the house.
IN CONTINUATION
FOR a few moments I gave way to all the weakness of my soul. Compassion for Honeywood, gratitude for his warm regard, were, you may believe, blended with other conflicting emotions.
I even regretted that the punctilious decorum of the world prevented me from enjoying his society, till I recollected, that, by such an intercourse, I should be tacitly giving encouragement to hopes which I could never realize. Tears still stood on my cheeks, when Dido bolted in; a wise grin on her face, her black orbs sparkling like diamonds—
“What! my dear Missee crying? Ah! how glad me be to see dearest Mr. Honeywood once again! Dido did always like Massa Honeywood; and me be so glad he lives but just here, for now my dear Missee can see him every day—every day—and he be living in so nice grand house!—Oh dear, dear! what fine gardens there be, Missee, at Massa Honeywood’s!—But ah, Missee, Missee!” tapping my cheek with her hand, “it be your own house, if you do like it;—me do know it be—me do know it be!” and she clapped her hands together, and danced around the room with marks of the greatest delight, in her manner.
“Dido,” said I. It was of no use to speak; Dido heard me not.
“Iss, iss, me think it be very pretty house, indeed,—it ■Se like the dear Fairfield plantation! Iss, iss, and me shall be housekeeper again, and have my bunch of keys at my own side! for here, God help Dido, there be nothing to lock. Now, be then good Missee, my own Massa’s daughter!”
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Dido! said I again, in rather a louder key. Dido turned round. “Dido, do you love your mistress?”
“You know Dido loves her Massa’s own daughter, better than she loves her own self.”
“And you can be happy where your mistress is?”
“Oh iss, iss!—Where Missee be happy, Dido be so too,”
“Then we shall both be very comfortable here.”
“Not here \” said Dido, and her arms fell lumpishly down at her sides.
“And why not here?”
“Massa Honeywood’s be very fine house!”
“Very likely I shall never go to see it.”
“Never!—Oh, my dearee Missee!”
“Never, Dido!”
“Oh, my good God almighty! me thought—Dido did think— but ’tis all of one—me know nothing in this England town, but disappointments—me will never believe any thing that me sees again,—no, that me won’t; for me cou’d have well sworn, that when Massa Honeywood corned here, this very morning, that he wou’d have asked my dear Missee to come and live to his house; for me was sure—me thought —that my Missee was his own very sweetheart!”
“But, Dido, were you as certain that your mistress would go and live with Mr. Honeywood, if he had asked her? Did you think your mistress could so soon change the object of her affections? Do you think she has already forgotten her husband?”
“Husband! he be no husband of my dear Missee’s.”
“Dido, I consider myself, I always shall consider myself, as his wife ! Talk no longer to me on this subject—you pain—you grieve me to the heart!”
“Me would not grieve dear Missee for all the world—me would not!”
“I believe you, my good girl; I know you are my friend—I look upon you as such—I talk to you as one—I will confide to you, Dido, that Mr. Honeywood did come on the errand you imagined!”
“He did, he did!” cried she; “me thought he did, me thought so all along!” and she kissed my hand in delight.
“That I could not listen to him, I have told you,” said I. “Ah! what sentiments could so ill accord with my feelings? Generous and candid, he was convinced by my reasoning—and I shall see him no more!”
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“No morel ” said Dido, “see him no more! and this little bit of a nut-shell of a house for my own dear Massa’s daughter?”—
“Dido, how often must I tell you, that happiness is independent of situation, and that in a palace I should be more unhappy than I am in this little cottage, because I should not have him to share it with me?”
Ah, my dearest friend! why tire you with a longer recapitulation of this conversation? why recapitulate the conflicts which this visit from Honeywood has occasioned me?—I will resume my pen when I feel more fit to be your correspondent.
IN CONTINUATION
“MR. MERTON is no more: Augustus is still in London.”
So says Caroline Lumley, in a letter just received: It is reported that he has died without a will; if so, his immense property will be equally divided between his sons. Pray heaven that it may be so! and pray Heaven that Augustus may know many, many years of peace and happiness with his Angelina!
IN CONTINUATION
HONEYWOOD continues to absent himself from the cottage, but hy a thousand delicate and different attentions I am reminded of his proximity. I know not how to act: by affecting not to discover, I am tacitly approving his attention, whilst, in refusing them I shall wound his already bruised heart. A fine bouquet of flowers on my mantle-piece; an aromatic heath on my window; a newspaper, or new pamphlet, on my breakfast-table; a pineapple, brought in by Dido, as a dessert!—oh, Mrs. Milbanke, what can I say to Honeywood for such well-meant kindnesses? Why should I put a construction on his behaviour which should hurt his feelings? And yet the consciousness of what these really are, the knowledge of his contiguity, operates as a check upon all my actions; and I am absolutely as if spell-bound, a prisoner in this little cot, and my smaller garden, when, because I would range free and uncontrolled, a tenant of the air, I chose this situation! Dido too, poor, affectionate, and simple-hearted girl, loving Mr. Honeywood for his attention to a mistress on whom she doats, though she puts a check upon her tongue, and never nam£s the name of Honeywood, yet has it always in her thoughts; and her looks convey that sort of tender reproof which I cannot express, not unaccompanied by exultation, either when she sees me notice any thing which is just arrived from Elm Wood (for this I find is the name of Honeywood’s place)—.
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IN CONTINUATION
CAROLINE LUMLEY gives me one piece of information, which you will rejoice to learn, as much as I did; for, thank God, in the desolation of my heart, it yet can glow with satisfaction to hear of another’s happiness.—A great nephew of Mr. Bellfield’s has lately discovered him: a very young man; liberal in principle, and of much goodness of heart. He has heard of his dependent and unworthy situation at the Pagoda; and, contemning the treatment of Sir Marmaduke, he has written to make a proffer of any part of his fortune to his uncle; and has done it in the most noble and handsome manner: at the same time that he refuses to introduce himself to Sir Marmaduke Ingot, his own uncle, by whom he would be certain of a welcome reception, as his recently acquired fortune would be a certain passport to the Pagoda.
Caroline says, that tears coursed each other down the rugged cheeks of the good old man, as he made this generous offer known to Waller, but that he steadfastly refuses to accept any pecuniary gift from his relation; though he is going to pay him a visit immediately, with a determination of residing with him during the remainder of his days. His sorrow at leaving his young friend, Waller, he expresses in a manner very flattering to the worthy young clergyman, “Who would find his own situation insupportable, he says (Caroline prettily and modestly inserts), if it were not for his being in our vicinity.”
IN CONTINUATION
AT length, my dear Mrs. Milbanke, your Olivia has received the long anticipated acquittal of Augustus Merton. Conscience has pricked the heart of Mrs. George Merton. She was seized by a violent and alarming illness, a few days previous to the decease of her father-in-law, and, while contemplating the near approach of death, the world, its pleasures, and its riches, faded from her view, and the whole weight of her unacknowledged crimes lay at her heart, she sent for Augustus, who, lucidly, was come to town, and, in the presence of her husband, made a full confession of all the malicious plans by which she had contrived to circumvent his happiness. She produced proofs of her guilt, in letters to and from the agents of her machinations, which made the truth of her relation but too apparent. These letters Augustus has transmitted to me for perusal. I cannot transcribe so black a scene of guilt!— Neither can I transcribe Augustus’s letter to myself: and, let me own the weakness of my heart, neither can I part with it.—Ah! Mrs. Milbanke, such a heart as is there laid open—such noble
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ness of sentiment—such respect—such consideration—let me add, such tenderness towards your Olivia, who but would be proud of keeping such a memorial of his esteem!
I will try to form a little narrative of these letters, and the confession of Mrs. Merton; and give to you, my beloved friend, the necessary information under that form. There will you see the fatal effects of female vanity, and of disappointed pride. There will you see—but I must not forestal myself.—All that can now be done in the way of reparation has been effected. Mr. Merton made a will, and has divided his fortune equally between his sons, on Mr. George Merton’s foregoing all claim to, or interest in, my fortune; and this has been formally relinquished to me by him, in the same packet that brought me this very pleasing and unlooked-for intelligence.—Yes! my friend, Augustus received the embrace, the affectionate blessing of his dying parent! He is now enabled to provide for his Angelina and his child, and your Olivia, is now contented!— She is more—she is grateful to that God who has melted the heart of the poor sinner; and, from the bottom of her own, she can forgive Mrs. George Merton; and, in full confidence of the undiminished regard of Mrs. Milbanke, continues to sign herself,
Her affectionate and grateful child,
OLIVIA FAIRFIELD.
THE NARRATIVE
You are not to be informed, that Mrs. George Merton was the only daughter of Mr. Manby, who, from a very obscure and plodding tradesman, through industry and good luck (as it is called), rose to be a wealthy merchant in the city of London. Without the advantages of a liberal education, and rising from the very dregs of the people, his notions were illiberal, his principles sordid and confined. The poor man, if he possessed every virtue , and a title , was an object of contempt and opprobrium; the rich , if the most worthless being in creation, and a chimney-sweeper , would, from him, have received attention and consideration. His wife, whose ideas were nearly as confined as his own, was yet assailable to the great tempter of her sex, vanity; and while Mr. Manby talked of thousands and ten thousands, she would enumerate on the.fhousand and ten thousands of fine things which could be purchased' by them. The mere hoarding of guinea upon guinea was the first pursuit of the one; the desire of making a show with their riches, was the first wish of the other: but nothing could persuade Mr. Manby to diverge from the beaten track. The front of his large
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premises in **** Lane was taken up in warehouses; and the small back parlour, to which he retired every evening, could not, with all Mrs. Manby’s attempts, be converted into any thing of a fashionable or dashy appearance. She was obliged, therefore, to content herself with showing her riches on her large and portly person; and when she sallied out on the Sunday’s walk, to the park, attired in all the colours of a rainbow, with her real lace weil, she was frequently gratified by hearing some of her quondam friends in **** Lane, whisper, as she sailed along, “streaming, in the wind ,” 1
“Look there! that is the rich Mr. Manby’s wife.”
An only child smiled on the union of this couple; she soon became the idol of both her parents: and, while the father carefully instilled into his offspring the value and the consequence of money, and taught her to distinguish a guinea from a shilling, before she could articulate; the mother, equally in character, dazzled her infantine eyes with finery, and laboured earnestly to decorate her little person in the costliest garb, and in the most becoming manner.
At an early age Letitia Manby was placed at a boarding-school a few miles from the metropolis, where the conductress of the seminary knew how to fall in with the dispositions of her employers. She had penetration to discover the ruling passion of the parents who committed their children to her care; and that discernment, which, if it had been applied to the discovery of the different traits in the characters of her pupils (to the encouragement of their virtuous, and to the correction of their vicious propensities), would have qualified her for the discharge of the office she had undertaken, being wholly turned towards the failings of their parents, and to making them subservient to her own interest; it may be presumed that those young ladies, who were ushered into the world, formed under her auspices, were likely to come forth with all the follies inherent to their sex, and to their different dispositions.
Miss Manby was by nature vain; she was also jealous of her own consequence, and frequently vaunted of the great wealth to which she was sole heiress! Her father could not be prevailed on, even when she returned from school—“mistress of every polite
accomplishment,” and “her education completer —as the subtle governess notified to Mrs. Manby,—not even for the sake of this darling child could he be prevailed on to relinquish his old habits, and his accustomed mode of life. The back parlour in **** Lane could not be forsaken for a house with a veranda (or weranda, as Mrs. Manby termed it), in one of the squares at the west end of the town—but every thing else that his dear Letty liked, she should have: and when Miss Manby declared, that she could not live without a friend, that she must have a friend, for that she had always been used to an intimate friend at school, but that not one amongst all of her very particular friends would visit her now she was come back to odious **** Lane, Mr. Manby told her she should have a friend—and the only sister of Mr. Manby, who had married a clergyman (whose whole subsistence had been derived from a curacy in Northumberland) being about this period carried off by malignant fever, which reigned in the neighbourhood, and to which her husband had previously fallen a victim, Mrs. Manby thought there would be something very benevolent in taking her orphan daughter for Letty’s friend.
Mrs. Forrester had been a different woman to her sister; she had naturally good understanding, and a rightly turned heart: and marrying Mr. Forrester, a man of probity and worth, she had, in the retirement of Northumberland, cultivated those talents, which had hitherto lain dormant in her mind; and, with the assistance of her husband, had become an accomplished, as well as an amiable, character. They had one child, and to the little Angelina had been transmitted all the beauty and the softness of her mother; all the intelligence and magnanimity of her father. This amiable girl knew neither sorrow nor care, till, by the fatal event which has been previously mentioned, she lost both her parents, and was restored, from the very brink of the grave, to behold herself alone and friendless, thrown on the wide world, a destitute orphan at the early age of seventeen! When, therefore, her aunt wrote her a letter of condolence; and offered her an asylum in **** Lane, to become the “friend and company -keeper of her Letty,” the gratitude of this child of nature was unbounded, and she eagerly accepted the invitation, and lost no time in going to her kind relatives!
The transition from the pure air of Northumberland to***** Lane, from wide heaths expanded lawns; from mountains and * vales, where nature in her “wildest works is seen ,” 1 to the close
atmosphere of the most combined part of the metropolis, was very striking to poor Angelina. The manners, too, of her new friends, Mr. Manby so short, so quaint, so odd in his expressions Mrs. Manby so fond of dress and finery, her whole conversation turning on the riches of her husband, and on her daughter’s beauty —the vanity and self-consequence of Letty , the air of authority and imposing command which she assumed towards her friend, was so perfectly novel to Angelina, that she would have felt her situation beyond endurance, if her recent and irreparable afflictions had not paralysed her feelings, and rendered her almost impervious to any thing which might succeed to them. Religion had been firmly planted in the mind of Angelina Forrester, and to “bear and forbear,” 1 which is, perhaps, the hardest duty which the Christian fulfils (especially if endowed with great sensibility of disposition), in that palsy of the mind which she experienced at her first introduction to London, she practised without much difficulty; and when her feelings resumed their wonted station, her reason returned also, and she did not deviate from a conduct, which she found was the only one she could adopt, with a probability of comfort, in her present situation.
Miss Manby considered Angelina, “Lina” (as she abbreviated the name) as an inferior being; Mrs. Manby thought she had done a noble action in receiving her niece in **** Lane, and in making her the “company keeper” of Letty; and Mr. Manby would not have increased his family circle for a useless member, and one who brought him no profit, except to please “his girl!”— The pleasure which Miss Manby derived from the society of Amgelina would be rather difficult to define. She seemed to take a delight in showing her finery, in pointing out the difference of their situations—“But I am so different from you, Lina”—“that gown is well enough for you, I could not be seen in such a one.” Angelina was made the companion of the young lady when she could get no other, but when a more dashy girl appeared, “I do not want you now, Lina,” was said with all the air of an arbitrary and supercilious mistress. Of a dull day, when Miss Manby had the vapours, Lina was to read full six hours at a stretch in the most silly novel which could be procured from the next circulating library; for, unless there was a great deal of love, and a long
account of the hero and the heroine’s person. Miss Manby usually pronounced it a “stupid, dull thing;” and Lina was dispatched eight or nine times in a morning till she could hit on a book, glowing with the description of beauty, and warm with the declaration of passion. Mrs. Manby usually sat by to hear the novel, and if the heroine was fair, with blue eyes, the description always was the exact resemblance of her dearest Letty.
Mr. Merton and Mr. Manby had some dealings together with regard to commercial business; in which, added to the great riches of the father, Mr. Manby discovered such readiness in, and application to his one thing needful, in George Merton, that he came home delighted with the young merchant; and, after calculating Mr. Merton’s fortune over his bowl of punch in the evening, he suddenly seized the ladle, and filling a bumper, said, “Here’s George Merton to you, little Letty, and may God send you such a husband!” This roused the curiosity of Mrs. Manby; she knew that the Mertons were considered as the very first people in the mercantile world, and “Law! Mr. Manby, then you must make an entertainment, and introduce him to our Letty,” quickly followed Mr. Manby’s toast.
“I don’t want a husband—I couldn’t abide a husband of pa’s choosing—I know he can’t be handsome or genteel,” said Mis Manby, affectedly turning up her lip!
“Now I can tell you Letty, he is both one and the other,” replied the father; “I never saw a likelier young fellow in my whole life: and as to calculations, why he is fit to meet the prime minister for the loan!”
An invitation was given and accepted, and Mr. Merton, accompanied by his two sons, dined in **** Lane. George Merton, tutored by his father (who liked the idea of getting old Manby’s fortune into his family), was all politeness and attention to the young heiress, while Augustus, perfectly undesigning and unconscious, sat near the modest and innocent Angelina; and perceiving the disregard of the rest of the party, he was the more respectful and attentive, pitying her situation; as, at the first view, he perceived that she was a superior being to those with whom she was placed. George Merton might have been called a handsome young man, but the redundancy of youth, the animation,
»*
the brilliancy which at this time played on the countenance, and sparkled in the eyes of Augustus, made him an object of greater attraction than his brother to Miss Manby. She could scarcely conceal her vexation when she saw him bestowing that attention on Lina, which she would fain have engrossed to herself. More
174 ANONYMOUS
than once, with a commanding air and an authoritative voice, she ordered Lina to fetch her handkerchief and her smelling-bottle, in order to send her out of the way; but the malicious expression which sat on her features, effectually disgusted Augustus; he saw through her contemptible jealousy, and, on the fair orphan’s return to the company, he beheld her with that commiseration which her situation inspired. Augustus Merton was the very personified hero of Miss Manby’s fruitful and impassioned imagination; she immediately fell violently in love with him, and told pa and ma, that she liked Mr. George Merton well enough, but he was not to compare with Augustus—Augustus too, sounded so well—so novel-like—‘Augustus and Letitia, a novel, founded on facts,’ would be delightful! Mr. Manby had none of his daughter’s reasons for preferring Augustus Merton to his brother; he had never read a novel in his life; and with regard to beauty, “handsome he, that handsome does,” was his maxim. Augustus had thrown out one or two severe innuendos, in contempt of that spirit of hoarding which Mr. Manby had displayed, and he plainly saw that George was his father’s favourite—but swayed by his wife, who assured him, that, “Letty would pine herself into a consumption if crossed in her first love,” he at length consented to
%
break the matter to Mr. Merton.
Mr. Merton had long seen that Augustus did not follow up his schemes of business with true mercantile avidity; there was an open-heartedness, a manly generosity in his character, which could only have been derived from the Fairfield family, and which had rendered him the idol of his mother, while it had had the contrary effect on his other parent. The prospect of settling Augustus so advantageously was very satisfactory to Mr. Merton; and, sending for his youngest son, he told him, that, seeing he had no wish of pursuing the commercial speculations, in which his family were embarked, with any portion of spirit, he could now put him into a way of making his fortune at a single stroke. The whole soul of Augustus recoiled when he heard the proposition of his father—What! marry Miss Manby? marry the haughty, the cruel, the unfeeling Letitia Manby? she, who tyrannized over a helpless orphan, to whom she apparently extended her protection !—that gentle being, whose patient forbearance, whose modest sweetness, had gained her an interest in his heart, which was scarcely known to himself!—No, never could he unite himself to Miss Manby!
In the firmest and the most decided manner Augustus expressed his dislike of Miss Manby, and his repugnance to the
THE WOMAN OF COLOUR 17 5
connexion. Mr. Merton was enraged with his son, and told him, as he valued his favour, if he expected from henceforth to be beheld as a son, he expected an implicit compliance with his wishes in this instance. Augustus temporized with his father—for the first time in his life, the treacherous emotions of his heart inclined him to play a double part—he promised to visit in **** Lane; he did so, but while the young heiress absolutely doated on him, while she exposed her preference to every common observer, Augustus could scarcely conceal the disgust with which he suffered her civilities, nor how deeply he quaffed the delicious draughts of love as they fell from the honied lips, the chastened smiles, of the unconscious Angelina! Wholly unexperienced and new to the world as Angelina was, there was something in the respectful regard, in the tender manner which Augustus Merton displayed in his behaviour towards her, which seemed to give life a new charm in her eyes. Yet these floating and delightful ideas had never been discussed in her mind; for she beheld Mr. Augustus Merton as the elected husband of her cousin, and frequently whispered to herself that Letitia was a most fortunate creature.
Miss Manby kept Angelina, as much as was possible, at a distance, while Miss Danby (a ci-devant 1 friend, who had at length got over her scruples concerning **** Lane, in the prospect of Miss Manby’s approaching union with the son of Mr. Merton, a man of great fortune and consequence) was her intimate companion and confidante!—Poor Angelina, confined in a close apartment up three pair of stairs, brooding over her past sorrows, and her present difficulties, would have become the victim of melancholy despondence, if the thought of Augustus Merton had not sometimes lulled her griefs, with airy and gay dreams of happiness.
The insulting and contumelious treatment which she met with from the friends in the parlour, and which were invariably backed by Mrs. Manby, could not have been sustained, if the benevolent friendliness of Mr. Merton had not frequently been exerted in her behalf; and on one of those instances of illiberal and vaunting superiority, when poor Angelina had given way to the bitterest emotions of her soul, Augustus Merton had accidentally found her;—prudence, duty, reflection, fled at the sight of her distress! and he abruptly made an impassioned avowal of love, as sincere as it was fervent. Surprise of the most delightful kind rendered
Angelina dumb; whilst Augustus hastily assured her, that nothing but his affection for her, and his compassion for her situation, could have induced him to bear the society at **** Lane for one half hour! He lamented that the prejudices of his father forbade him to offer her his hand in a public manner, but with vows of constancy he besought her to hear him. He conjured her to consent to his proposal of a private marriage, that she might be his beyond the reach of fate or fortune!—The fond, the confiding, the grateful Angelina, was ill-calculated to carry on a contest against her own heart;—she met Augustus Merton one morning in **** church, where they were formally and legally united in marriage bonds; after which, the bride retired to private lodgings, which her husband had taken for her reception. To save appearances, and to avoid a discovery, Augustus consented to continue to visit, for a time, in **** Lane. But the suspicions of Letitia Manby were awake, though she contrived to conceal them from the object of them. In conjunction with her mother, she set every inquiry on foot to discover the retreat of Angelina, and when this had been accomplished, a train of revenge was laid as black as it proved successful. With all the apprehensive fears of a friend zealous for the honour of his family, Mrs. Manby sought the elder Mr. Merton, and under a strict charge of inviolable secrecy, confided to him her fears, that Mr. Augustus Merton had an intention of disgracing himself by marrying a low creature whom she had protected merely from benevolent and charitable motives.
Mr. Merton was greatly shocked at the intelligence of Mrs. Manby: but, eager to snatch his son from (what he termed) ruin, he ordered him to embark immediately for Ireland to transact some commercial business of an urgent nature which would necessarily detain him some time; and, during his absence, Mrs. Manby took upon herself the charge of putting the young lady out of his reach. Poor Augustus, in this instance, dared not disobey his father—no time had been given him for reflection; he just snatched a hasty farewel of his darling Angelina, in an agony of mind little short of distraction. He left her all the money he had, and promising to write to her frequently, he tore himself away, and got on board the vessel, which was already under weigh.
And now it was, that in all the affected distress of insulted honour and maternal affection, Mrs. Manby sought out her niece. Breaking violently, and unushered, into her apartment, she assured her, that she had been trepanned and ruined by a villain,
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under die stale pretext of a false marriage. At first, the indignant Angelina thought it doubting Heaven, to doubt the faith and honour of Augusus Merton; but proofs, behind proofs, were produced by Mrs. Manby, of a false clergyman being hired by Augustus, for the performance of the marriage ceremony, for which there had been prepared a fictitious licence, and that the whole business had been formal and illegal—that she could no longer hope!—
The agony of the innocent orphan is not to be described; more especially when she found that she was likely to become the mother of a witness of her own shame and the guilt of her seducer. To her aunt she now turned herself, as to her only friend; and on her knees conjured her to bestow pity and forgiveness! Mrs. Manby evinced more feeling than Angelina had ever experienced from her before. She said, she could not take her back to **** Lane;—she must never tell her Letty what she had done for her, but she would not let the only child of her own sister perish; and she would send her into some retired part of Wales; and she would pay for her maintenance there, if Angelina would consent to go by a feigned name, and never attempt to see or hear from her vile seducer! Alas! Angelina could easily promise this, convinced of his falsehood, whose heart she had hitherto believed the seat of truth.—She only wished to hide her shame and sorrow in obscurity! She was quickly transported into Wales, and the smallpox soon after carrying off the woman with whom she had lodged in London, and also a young woman, who had immediately tenanted Angelina’s vacated apartments on her quitting them, Mrs. Manby managed this (to her ) lucky circumstance very adroitly; and the death of poor Angelina was credited even by Mr. Merton. Miss Manby was the malicious suggester of all the schemes which her parent had so promptly executed; and being convinced, that Augustus Merton would never accede to her tender wishes, even if he were to outlive his affection for Angelina Forrester, she determined, that during his absence, she would marry his brother; the more effectually to revenge herself on Augustus, by thus securing the favour of Mr. Merton towards his eldest son.
Mr. George Merton easily fell in with the views of this crafty young lady. Mr. Merton was delighted to find that the istanby wealth would still be centred in his family, and within a very few weeks after the marriage of Miss Manby and Mr. George Merton —Mr. Manby was deprived of life, by a sudden stroke of apoplexy; and thus, nearly fifty thousand pounds fell into the eager grasp of the lucky George Merton! Mrs. Manby outlived
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her husband but a few months. The place of Angelina’s concealment was perfectly well known to Mrs. George Merton; and, through her mother s former agent in this business, she contrived that her stipend should be continued regularly.
We will pass over the agonizing feelings of Augustus Merton, on being informed of the untimely fate of his beloved Angelina. The idea of her falling a victim to a direful malady;—alone, and unprotected—her only friend—her husband , at a distance, was dreadful! He pondered over her virtues; he delighted in retracing her mild and gentle attractions; the modest excellencies of her mind; and he gave way to all the oppressive grief which pierced his soul; while the very sight of Mrs. George Merton—of his brother’s wife , was torture! The look of exultation and triumph which sat on her countenance gave him a sensation of abhorrence and disgust; and he fled from her presence as he would have hastened from a venomous reptile!
Time elapsed; yet still the wounds of Augustus’s heart were unclosed. He still sighed over lost happiness; and the death of Mr. Fairfield, in Jamaica, with the tenour of his last will, were at length made known to his relatives in England! Strange as the tenour of this will appeared; miserable as must be the future fate of Olivia Fairfield, if dependent on his brother; yet Augustus declared to his father, that the affections of his heart were for ever lain in the tomb of Angelina Forrester (he had not thought it necessary to avow his private marriage since the fatal event of her death had taken place) and that he could never marry his cousin! But, consenting to meet Olivia at Clifton,—the natural benevolence and philanthropy of his heart got the better of this resolution, and he made the virtuous sacrifice of his own feelings to Olivia Fairfield’s happiness!
It would be incredible that there could have existed such a character as Mrs. George Merton, if the melancholy fact were not made too apparent—and that by her own confession. The happiness which ensued to the union of Augustus and Olivia, the fortune which Augustus enjoyed, once more excited all the malice of her heart; and, burning with revenge at beholding the tranquil serenity of their countenances, she thought to put the death-stroke to all future comfort by restoring Angelina to the sight of her husband—returning them both to poverty, and overwhelming the hapless Olivia with complicated misery!
Angelina, in her sequestered nook, had (soon after her retreat to it) become the mother of a fine little boy; and in rearing her offspring with maternal tenderness, she had received all the comfort
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of which her existence seemed capable. She had a half-yearly remittance from town, sufficient for her decent maintenance; it was continued to be paid by Mrs. Manby’s agent, after that lady’s death, and Angelina was given to understand, that this was done in consequence of the secret and dying injunctions of that lady; and that Angelina was desired implicitly, to follow his directions in every step of her future life. The marriage of Augustus Merton to Miss Fairfield had been carefully communicated to Angelina through this channel; and if a doubt had still hung on her mind with regard to this falsehood, and the turpitude of his conduct towards her, the knowledge of this event entirely decided it. She became inured and resigned to her lot: she deeply lamented her inexperienced weakness, and that credulity which had induced her to consent to a private marriage; but her conscience was eased of the weight of intentional guilt, and her faith in the promises of God, firmly planted in her mind, she looked forwards to a happy futurity with chastened hope!
From this torpid tranquillity, Angelina was once more roused by a letter from the agent, informing her, that the house in which she resided was advertised for sale, and that he had in consequence taken a cottage for her in Devonshire, to which she was required to move without loss of time; that the situation was more eligible, and that she would remain as secluded, and as much unknown, as in Wales.
These orders Angelina dared not disobey; but the thought of removing to such a distance was very unpleasant. She had associated ideas of comfort and quiet with the cottage which had been her asylum in trouble, which had sheltered her defenceless head from the cruel taunts of a malicious world, and which had been the birthplace of her child; and she set out on her journey with a heavy and a foreboding heart. To her great surprise and mortification, she found that her new habitation was attached to a gentleman’s park, and near a bathing place of general resort; she feared to stir abroad, lest she should attract the prying eye of curiosity. She had from time to time observed a gentleman walking near her cottage, and, fearing a discovery and recognition of her person by some of her former acquaintance, she secluded herself with double vigilance, till surprised, whilst sitting in her parlour, by the abrupt entrance of Colonel Singleton, who addressing her in a strain of gallantry, as fulsome as it was ill-timed, she lost her presence of mind in the indignant sense of the insult, and rushing from the house was caught in the arms of her still-doating husband!
END OF THE NARRATIVE
180 ANONYMOUS
OLIVIA FAIRFIELD—IN CONTINUATION
THUS, my dear Mrs. Milbanke, have I given you the simple statement of facts. In the full acquittal of Augustus Merton, believe me, I do not feel my own hard fate. Mine was a disinterested attachment, my dearest friend; and I glory in saying, that I prefer his happiness to my own. I have just received a note of congratulation from Honeywood. I suspect that Dido has been the means of so speedily conveying this intelligence to Elm Wood. Poor girl, she was nearly frantic with joy when she heard of it. How grateful am I for her faithful attachment! Mrs. George Merton is recovered from her illness. Her mind disburdened of its load, became tranquil, and her health mended in consequence. Ah! if the inward feelings of the guilty were made apparent, I believe we should find, that, even in this world, they experienced no light punishment.
IN CONTINUATION
MORE wonders!—More events to communicate to my dear friend. I have just parted with another visitor—with the uncle of Mr. Honeywood! He introduced himself to me uncalled for— unexpected: but I received him with a cordial welcome, for I beheld the good Mr. Bellfield!—Yes, Honeywood is the generous, the noble-minded nephew, who has sought out his worthy and unfortunate relative, and who has caused the tears of delighted gratitude to rush to the eyes of this respectable old man!
“Ah!” said the venerable Bellfield, as he pressed my hand in his, “I glory in this nephew, my dear madam; there is only one man, whom I know, that is his equal—” He stopped. The long-absent crimson visited his time-worn cheek; his confusion convinced me that he alluded to Augustus. He proceeded—“There is only one woman worthy of him—and she —ah! madam—much esteemed and respected young lady—suffer an old man to speak—suffer him to ask you, whether it be charity, whether it be humanity, to let this excellent youth pine away the flower of his days? to be exiled from that society which he prizes beyond every other? to be ever within the hearing of her manifold virtues, of her extraordinary endowments, and still to experience the punishment of Tantalus , 1 in not
daring to enter her presence? Let not my plain speaking offend you, dearest lady,” seeing that I rose from my seat—“I ask these questions from the sincerity of my heart. You have it in your power to raise my nephew to the highest state of happiness which he is capable of enjoying in this state of being.—You acknowledge his worth—you are not blind to his virtues—then why—”
“Mr. Bellfield,” said I, interrupting him, “little did I think that I could ever regret receiving a visit from you and are you, too, joined in a party against the unfortunate Olivia? Is it the venerable, the good Mr. Bellfield that seeks to persuade this beating heart to become an apostate to its first love?”
“Is it Miss Fairfield,” asked Mr. Bellfield, looking at me with some severity of expression in his countenance,—“is it Miss Fairfield who talks of a passion which she ought never to name }— which she ought to exert all her fortitude, all her resolution, to extirpate for ever from her heart?”
“Heaven is my witness!” cried I, “that I consider Augustus Merton as the husband of Angelina, that for the ‘wealth of worlds ’ 1 I would not interrupt their happiness. To define my feelings, exactly, I cannot; yet I feel a consolation—a romantic satisfaction, in imagining myself as the widow of my love! Had death taken from me the object of my affections, this bosom never could have known another lord. Think then, my dear sir, how much more acute was my misfortune, when, by a single stroke, an instance almost unparalleled—duty—religion—even honour, bade me instantly resign my living husband!”
“You are an extraordinary creature!” said Mr. Bellfield, wiping his eyes; “and to say the truth, I do not wonder at Honeywood, when you have the power to make all old fellow, like myself, play the child and blubber before you!—But, ah! my poor Honeywood, my good boy!”—and snatching up his hat and, stick he walked out of the house.
I will not say any thing of this new exercise of my feelings, for I must, ever sympathize with those whom I love; and that her Olivia, loves both Honeywood and his good old relative, Mrs. Milbanke will readily believe.
*
IN CONTINUATION
MR. BELLFIELD visits me daily. Never since our first interview has he dropped a syllable concerning his nephew’s attachment, though his virtues are the never-varying topic of his discourse; and they form so striking a contrast to the pride, the arrogance, and the supercilious importance of Sir Marmaduke Ingot, that I cannot wonder at his garrulity. He has given me a brief sketch of Mrs. Honeywood’s life. I will weave it into a little narrative for your perusal.
THE HISTORY OF MRS. HONEYWOOD
It has been said, that Mr. Bellfield took the orphan and destitute children of an only sister into his house, resolving to become their protector—and this he was in the fullest sense of the word. From that hour he discarded all thoughts of matrimony, although his temper and his inclination would have led him to seek for connubial happiness; and his heart had long felt a secret preference in favour of a lady, whose character and connexions were very suitable to his own, but from the moment when he voluntarily resolved to be the father of the fatherless, he steadily applied himself to the conquest of every tender sentiment for this lady, and his endeavors were so far crowned with success, that through a long term of years, during which he maintained an undiminished intercourse with her, she had never imagined that his regard for her had ever risen beyond the bounds of friendship!
Mrs. Moreton had left three children; the eldest was Marmaduke, whom his uncle soon perceived to have very ambitious notions joined to an imperious and irascible disposition. His views of gain were too ardent and sanguine to bear the plodding means of patient industry and perseverance, by which an independence must be acquired in England; and his young heart burned to go to a climate where a fortune would be speedily acquired, and every luxury of life be within his reach, ere time should have impaired his powers of enjoyment:—a country, where the following maxim has too frequently been adopted by the youth who have set out on the career of gain—“Get money,— honestly, if you can;—but, whatever you do, get money.”
Mr. Bellfield was an easy man,—he was indulgent to all with * whom he was concerned; and perceiving that the whole thoughts of Marmaduke were turned towards the East, exerted all his interest (which was, at that period, very great, as his mercantile connexions were very extensive), and fitted out his nephew for
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Bengal. The second son continued with his uncle, and died of a decline, when he was just starting in manhood.—This was a sore affliction to Sophia Moreton; she had loved her brother Charles with fond affection: he had always been her favourite brother, and constant associate and companion, during the last three years that she had returned from school to keep her uncle’s house. Mr. Bellfield dried the tears of his lovely niece—the good man doated on this amiable girl, whose manners and whose person were particularly calculated to conciliate regard; while the virtues of her heart gave a rich promise of future worth. Bereft of her brother, Sophia redoubled her attentions towards her kind uncle; and it might be said that she lived only to evince her duty and her gratitude towards him: and Mr. Bellfield has frequently been heard to say, that this was by far the happiest period of his life.
Sophia Moreton was a blooming girl of eighteen, when a young West Indian was consigned to the care of Mr. Bellfield, in order to acquire a local knowledge of England by a few months residence in it, as a finish to commercial education. The house of Honeywood had for some years maintained a correspondence with that of Bellfield, in the mutual transaction of business; and always ready to do a good natured action, the good Bellfield welcomed the youth most cordially, and he became an inmate of his house. Delighted with the charms of the gay metropolis, full of health, with spirits and unsubdued gaiety in all the flush of effervescent youth, Honeywood enlivened every party, and gilded every hour by his unceasing vivacity. He was soon attracted by the beautiful simplicity of Sophia Moreton, and, hasty and impassioned, with all that fervour of disposition which so peculiarly characterizes his countrymen—he declared that health, that happiness, that life itself depended on his taking back the lovely Sophia to the West Indies as his wife. Sophia thought Mr. Honeywood handsome and agreeable, but she had seen very little of him; she could not be said to know his character. She felt her heart shrink within her, at the idea of leaving her uncle, and venturing herself with him on “untried seas and unknown shores ;” 1 but Honeywood, the ardent Honeywood, was not to be dissuaded from his purpose: he swore that he would never return again to his father, unless she would accede to his wishes; and dh his knees he frantically besought Mr. Bellfield not to withhold his'
consent, not to condemn him to everlasting ruin! Mr. Bellfield made some allowance for the sanguine temperament of this young and hot-headed West Indian; he felt that it would be a bitter trial to him to part with his beloved Sophia; but self-denial had long been the good man’s practice: and the known wealth and established respectability of Honeywood’s father, the pleasing qualities of the young man, and his (apparently) warm regard for his niece, made him think that he should probably be opposing the advancement of Sophia, and her future happiness in life, by not furthering the union. He sounded his niece on the subject poor Sophia was not deeply in love, but she hesitated not to acknowledge, that she certainly felt a preference, a sort of interest for Mr. Honeywood; and in reality this was the true state of her heart. But this open avowal from one of her modest disposition, Mr. Bellfield construed into something of a warmer kind, and became in consequence more eager to forward the union of the young couple, while Sophia imagining she was pleasing her uncle by a compliance with his wishes—an uncle to whom she owed every thing—no longer hesitated to become the wife of Honeywood; and Mr. Bellfield remitted with her ten thousand pounds as her wedding portion.
On their first arrival in the island, all was delighted fondness on the part of Honeywood; proud of the beauty of his bride, and of the fortune which she had brought him, he introduced her to all his acquaintance, and they existed in one continued swirl of hilarity and amusement. The elder Mr. Honeywood received his daughter-in-law with much satisfaction, and Sophia had nothing to complain of: and yet there was a vacuity in her mind, a want of relish for all the gratifications which waited her, which she ingenuously attributed to the absence of her respected uncle; that good man, in whose society and conversation she had always found her highest enjoyment; whose approbation of her conduct had always been the stimulus of her exertions.
Sophia too soon perceived that there was no stability in the character of her husband; his principles were not fixed, but veered with every impulsive movement of his feelings, and the rapid and changeable turns of these, in his impetuous constitution, were constantly engaging him in some plan, which interested him only, as long as any difficulty appeared in the pursuit. Nothing could dissuade him from any design which he took in hand; and his various and chimerical speculations (after the death of his father, which happened in a few years after his return to Jamaica) becoming more extensive in their aim, were conse
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quently more serious in their failure, which occurred but too frequently. It was in vain that Sophia, by gentle persuasions, would have induced him to pursue one undeviating and steady track; immediately on the defeat of one wild scheme, his whole soul was rapt on the projection of another, and his large fortune, in consequence, became much impoverished, and his affairs in great confusion. The consignments of Mr. Bellfield were not attended to, and poor Sophia, amidst the pressure of domestic disappointment and maternal solicitude, for the future fate of her little boy, felt a greater weight at her heart, from the fear that her good uncle would suffer from her husband’s imprudences. A prey to unceasing disquiet and anxiety, daily witnessing acts of the most unlicensed extravagance, with no power or influence in checking its career, her health was on the decline, and she eagerly accepted her husband’s offer of revisiting England for its restoration; but in fact to see her beloved uncle, towards whom her heart yearned with fond affection: and to ask his advice relative to the education of her son, who was now of an age to be put to school, and for whose morals she dreaded the tainted atmosphere of Jamaica.
Sophia found her uncle depressed in spirits and circumstances. Time had imprinted its passing hand on his head, but his heart was still the same, and he folded his beloved niece to it with unsubdued tenderness. Sophia at this moment lifted up the anguished sigh, and sincerely wished she had never quitted those paternal arms which now sheltered her in their fond embrace!
Charles Honeywood was placed at an eligible school, Sophia resumed her duties in her uncle’s family, and the old man smiled once again. Sophia’s health might have mended from the genial air of her native clime, from the kind indulgence of her protector, if the fear, the anxiety, which she suffered on the account of Honeywood, if the evident embarrassment of her uncle’s affairs— embarrassed by the negligence of her husband—had not imbittered every moment!
Months and years passed on, and Sophia’s presence was not re-demanded in Jamaica. The inconstancy, the neglect of her husband, the entire loss of his affections, had been but too apparent previous to her quitting him, though her conduct had been irreproachable; and by patient suffering, and undiminished attempts to please on her part, she had mildly essayed to win him back to the path of duty.
The involvement of Mr. Bellfield’s affairs became truly alarming, when the failure of Mr. Honeywood’s house in Jamaica, by reducing her kind, her generous uncle to the verge of ruin, almost
186 ANONYMOUS
broke the heart of the affectionate Sophia. It was soon after that the news of Honeywood’s death determined her to revisit a place which had lain the foundation of all her sorrows, in order to gather up a maintenance for her son (that son, whose education completed, was now all that a fond mother’s most sanguine wishes had depicted), if from the wreck of a once-noble patrimony she could but snatch a little pittance, something to assist her uncle—to support her Charles—she should be content!
The struggles which Mrs. Honeywood underwent during three years of anxious inspection into the intricate and perplexed affairs of her late husband, effectually undermined her health; and she returned to England with a competency snatched from the ruin of his fortune, to resign her life in the arms of her disconsolate son, and to be in utter ignorance respecting the fate of her honoured uncle;—(for, of the title of her brother Marmaduke,—of his return to England, and his large fortune, she was wholly unacquainted).
On losing his mother, Honeywood had nearly resigned himself to despair, when he was roused from his agonizing emotions to attend the death-bed of an old gentleman who was distantly related to his grandfather, Mr. Moreton, and who resided at Elm Wood in Monmouthshire. This gentleman having no near relative, made a will bequeathing Honeywood the bulk of his fortune, in estates and money, to the value of three thousand per annum. The heart of Honeywood experienced no exhilaration at this acquisition of property, while yet a stranger to the fate of his uncle Bellfield, while yet mourning the loss of his beloved mother. He continued at ElmWood, after the demise of the old gentleman, and in one of his accidental conversations with Dido, she gave him, in her simple manner, the history of the neighbourhood of New Park; and happened to mention the name of “good old Mr. Bellfield, as one of her dear Missee’s best friends.” Honeywood did not notice the discovery to her, but instantly wrote to the venerable gentleman as has been mentioned.
THE END OF THE NARRATIVE
OLIVIA FAIRFIELD TO MRS. MILBANKE IN CONTINUATION
* DEAREST Mrs. Milbanke! I am foiled in my best designs. Augustus has forestalled me—he has presented the amiable Waller with a living in the adjoining parish to Mr. Lumley. It was one which we had both set our eyes upon, as a desirable situation
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for our young friends.—Ah! how am I daily constrained to bear added testimony to the worth of Augustus Merton!
IN CONTINUATION
YES! My beloved friend, I am coming to you. I waited but for you to suggest a scheme which my heart has long anticipated. Your letter is arrived, and Dido is already packing up with avidity. We will revisit Jamaica. I shall come back to the scenes of my infantine happiness—of my youthful tranquillity. I shall again zealously engage myself in ameliorating the situation, in instructing the minds—in mending the morals of our poor blacks. I shall again enjoy the society of my dear Mrs. Milbanke—I shall forget the lapse of time which has occurred since I parted from her, and shall again be happy! Eager to be with you once more, I almost count the tardy minutes as they move along.
IN CONTINUATION
MY passage is taken in the ****; and to-morrow I set out for Bristol. England, favoured Isle!—Happy country, where the laws are duly administered—where the arts—the sciences flourish, and where religion is to be found in all its beautiful purity. Farewel!—a long farewel!—Fain would I have taken up my abode in this charming clime,—but Heaven forbade it. Yet, England, I shall carry with me over the world of waters a veneration for thy name, a veneration for that soil which produced a Lumley—a Bellfield—and an Augustus Merton!
*
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ANONYMOUS
DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EDITOR AND A FRIEND.
Friend. —What do you propose from the publication of the foregoing tale? If your Woman of Colour be an imaginary character, I do not see the drift of your labours, as undoubtedly there is no moral to the work!
Editor .—How so?
Friend .—You have not rewarded Olivia even with the usual meed of virtue —a husband}.
Editor .—Virtue, like Olivia Fairfield’s, may truly be said to be its own reward —the moral I would deduce from her story is, that there is no situation in which the mind (which is strongly imbued with the truths of our most holy faith , and the consciousness of a divine Disposer of Events ) may not resist itself against misfortune, and become resigned to its fate. And if these pages should teach one child of calamity to seek Him in the hour of distress who is always to be found, if they teach one skeptical European to look with a compassionate eye towards the despised native of Africa — then, whether Olivia Fairfield’s be a real or an imaginary character, I shall not regret that I have edited the Letters of a Woman of Colourl
FINIS
THE WOMAN OF COLOUR 189
*
•4
Appendix A: Lucy Peacock, <( The Creole ” from The Rambles of Fancy; or, Moral and Interesting Tales. Containing The Laplander etc., Vol. II (London: T. Bensley, 1786) 110-77
[ Luc y Peacock s long prose fiction about a Creole heiress who may or may not be of color (but is definitely aligned with Negro slaves) has many thematic similarities with The Woman of Colour including a cultured but vulnerable Caribbean heroine who triumphs without resorting to marriage, a bigamy plot, and attention to the issues of prejudice, slavery, and emancipation. It is included here as another example of the way in which a darkskinned Caribbean woman was used as a didactic figure in a “moral tale.”]
A series of years had propitiously revolved, since the bands of hymen united George Sedley to the most amiable and beauteous of women: the web of their destiny seemed formed of the fairest and most delicate texture, and fortune had scattered their path with her richest treasures.
Their residence was at a beautiful villa, detached from the tumult of cities, where they enjoyed the pleasures of rational society and rural retirement.
At the close of a delightful summer, as Mrs. Sedley was one day sitting at a window which commanded an extensive view of the adjacent meadows, her feelings were sensibly affected by beholding a woman extended on the ground, apparently in the agonies of death. Her head was supported by a youth about eighteen years of age, whose countenance expressed the most poignant grief. The compassionate Harriot Sedley immediately ordered the unfortunate woman to be conveyed into the house, and a physician to be sent for; though she appeared to be reduced more through want and sorrow than by pain or disease. By the timely care and attention of her benefactress, her health in a few t days became perfectly re-established; and the youth, who was her son, endeavoured to assume an aspect of more composure; for, till now, he had remained at her bed-side, a prey to all the horrors of despair.
THE WOMAN OF COLOUR 191
Mrs. Sedley found the unfortunate stranger to be a woman of talents and high accomplishments. She was about the age of forty; tall and elegant in her person; her complexion was dark; and her face, though it could not be called handsome, possessed such sweetness and sensibility, that rendered it more captivating than beauty itself.
Mrs. Sedley felt an earnest desire to know what singular calamity had thus reduced one whom address and education seemed to have designed for the most elevated sphere of life: she was cautious, however, of expressing her curiosity, fearing she might heighten the wretchedness of her friend, by any apparent distrust of her character or conduct.
At length the stranger, as they were sitting one day together, thus addressed her.
★ ★ ★
AFTER the unspeakable obligations, Madam, I have received, it is a justice I owe to your kindness, and my own character; to convince you, by relating my wretched story, that my misfortunes have not originated from vice or misconduct: the world may, indeed, accuse me of the latter; but it is an ill judging one, which censures alike the innocent and the guilty.
I was born (said she) in one of the West India islands: my father was an English merchant, who having married the daughter of an opulent planter there, settled in the island. I was an infant when my mother died; and, being the only child my father had, enjoyed his affection undiminished; but, though his fondness was to such excess that he could not endure the thought of parting with me, this extravagant partiality was by no means injurious to my education, as the liberality of his fortune enabled him to invite over men of eminent abilities, to cultivate and improve my talents.
I acquired a perfect knowledge, not only of the French and Italian, but also of the Latin language, besides making some progress in moral and natural philosophy.
Being sole heir to my father’s wealth, which, I before said, was considerable, I was not destitute of admirers: but I beheld all mankind with equality; nor had yet seen the man with whom I thought I could be content to unite my fate, for my disposition being naturally contemplative, and having dedicated a large portion of my time to the Muses, my mind became insensibly tinctured with that generous enthusiasm they ever inspire. To
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render marriage that permanent state of bliss, which my fond imagination had pictured it, I believed more was requisite than wealth, titles, or external accomplishments. I looked for sympathy of soul, and perfect union of ideas. Like Clarissa, I wished, ‘to pass my life in rational tranquility, with a friend whose virtues I could respect, whose talents I could admire. And who would make my esteem the basis of my affection .’ 1
I had just entered into my twentieth year, when it pleased heaven to deprive me of the best of parents. By his death I became possessed of a fortune surpassing my most ambitious desires: but this acquisition, I can with sincerity affirm, was far, very far from compensating the loss I sustained in him. I performed the last sad melancholy office to his ever-honoured remains, and cried over him the unfeigned tear of filial sorrow. As my father, during his life, was naturally fond of those amusements which enliven the fashionable circle, I had mingled much more in it than was agreeable to my tranquil turn of mind. Now, being entire mistress of my actions, I resolved to indulge myself in a manner of living more suited to my disposition. Having, therefore, retired to an elegant villa, which my father had fitted up in a remote part of the island, I reduced my numerous acquaintance to a few select friends and there found myself in possession of the greatest sweeteners of human life;
Friendship, retirement, rural quiet, books,
An elegant sufficiency, content . 2
A stranger to love, envy, or ambition, my days were crowned with joy, and my nights with undisturbed repose—Delightful hours! why so soon did you spread your airy pinions, and leave me to weep for that peace which can return no more.
I had been but a few months settled in my tranquil abode, when a young man arrived in the island with letters of recommendation to my father, from a friend of his in America. I
acquainted the stranger with the loss I had experienced in the best of parents; at the same time assuring him, that any services it was in my power to render him he might command.
From that hour he had free access to me. His stature was of the middle height, graceful and well proportioned; his education was liberal; his judgment correct, and his manners gentle and engaging: but his countenance! Oh, why did nature form it so ingenuous? why was not perfidity and ingratitude stamped on every feature? These attractions too easily subdued my unguarded heart; my joys became all centered in the agreeable stranger.
In a few weeks after his arrival, he took advantage of that partiality which I am fearful, he was too sensible I entertained for him; and professed a passion for me, so sincere and disinterested, that I easily gave credit to that which I so ardently wished. Wealth is surely not enviable! happy is the village maid whose innocence and beauty are her only dower: no riches, no titles, to allure, she enjoys the affections of her faithful shepherd, unbiassed by sordid interest or ambition.
But to resume a story which, would to Heaven, I could for ever blot from my remembrance! I did not long endeavour to conceal that passion which was my greatest pride. It is true, the object of it was undistinguished by wealth or station; but these I viewed with contempt, when set in competition with those virtues and accomplishments my fond imagination ascribed to my beloved Groveby. He continued to-urge his love; and with such success, that in six months after we were married.
This step drew on me the censure of all my acquaintance, who thought it madness in me to lavish so large a fortune on a young man possessed of no other recommendation than that of a good person and education.
Their reflections, however, gave me little concern: I had found a man who seemed formed to render my life permanently happy; and rejoiced that heaven had enabled me to exalt him to that sphere to which, I flattered myself, his worth and talents would become an ornament.
Perfect harmony subsisted betwixt us two years; but, alas! at the end of that period I perceived with grief, that indifference gradually succeeded the ardour of affection which had till then influenced the conduct of my husband. To a heart less tender, perhaps less fond, than mine, this change might have been imperceptible; but my love was of that delicate nature, as to startle even at the shadow of unkindness. Oh, that it had been but a shadow!
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He spent whole days from me; my endearments were irksome to him; and if I inquired into the cause of his dejection or displeasure, he answered me with such coolness and reserve, as cut me to the soul.
Oh, Madam; may you never experience the pangs of unreturned affection; may you never feel the tortures I then endured! for I still loved the dear, ungrateful youth, with undiminished ardour; and time, which had weakened and destroyed his passion, seemed only to have added strength to mine.
At length, one day, he told me that, being weary of a climate which he found by no means agreed with his constitution, he was resolved to return to America; and ordered me to prepare immediately for our departure, as he had settled for our passage in a vessel which sailed in a few weeks.
I was rather surprised at this information, as he had never before intimated his intention: I did not, however, oppose his design; but instantly made preparations for our voyage. Most of our effects being conveyed on board, and the time having arrived, within a few days, for our departure, my husband went one day to dine on board with the captain of the vessel. I awaited his return till late in the evening, when I began to grow alarmed at his delay, fearing that some accident might have befallen him: but oh, Madam! how shall I describe my agony, when, on sending a messenger to enquire for him, I discovered that the vessel had been under sail some hours, and that my perfidious husband had embarked in it.
A cold sweat bedewed my limbs, a mist of darkness seemed to gather round me, and I sunk motionless to the ground: oh! that I had remained for ever insensible, that death had for ever freed my wearied spirit from this scene of wretchedness!
I remained almost in a state of insanity several days, when a nervous fever ensuing, reduced me so low that my life was despaired of: youth, however, and the natural strength of my constitution, baffled the disease; and health returned, though my peace of mind was for ever fled.
I now saw myself deprived of that affluence to which, from my infancy, I had been accustomed; for my unkind Groveby had, some months before, unknown to me, converted our estates into cash; all which he had taken with him, leaving me only one small plantation, which I was likewise under a necessity of disposing of, to supply my immediate exigencies.
This sudden reverse of fortune gave me an opportunity of discovering a similar alteration in the conduct of my acquaintance:
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the warmth of friendship was now changed into cool indifference; and those few who still continued to wear the appearance of cordiality, rendered my visits irksome, by satirical remarks, or mortifying reflections.
From my honest negroes alone I received consolation; their affection remained unshaken, and glowed with more fervour amidst the clouds of sorrow, and misfortune that surrounded me.
I could, indeed, have raised a considerable sum by disposing of them; but, though born in a clime which authorizes the inhuman custom of bartering our fellow-creatures for gold, I ever loathed and detested the horrid practice.
Surely, my dear Madam, we have no right to tyrannize over, and treat as brutes, those who will doubtless one day be made partakers with us of an immortality. Have they not the same faculties, the same passions, and the same innate sense of good and evil? Should we, then, who are enlightened by the holy precepts of Christianity, refuse to stretch forth the friendly hand, to point these human affections to the most laudable purposes, the glory of God, and the real advantage of society.
Let us not mislike them for their complexion,
The shadow’d livery of the burnish’d sun . 1
It is the charming variety with which nature has adorned her works, that so much raises our admiration and delight. The lily would bloom less fair, uncontrasted by the rose and the splendor of day become less welcome, was it not for the pleasing vicissitude of night. Is it then reasonable to despise a part of the creation, for contributing towards the beauty of the whole?
You will, I hope, Madam, excuse this unnecessary digression; but I have experienced such unshaken affection from these poor creatures, and have at the same time been so frequently witness to the cruelty and oppression which are daily exercised on them, that I could not refrain from entering with warmth on a subject in which my feelings have been so often wounded.
Many of the negroes had grown old in my father’s service; and though their lives had passed with labour, gentleness and kind treatment had rendered the toil light. I could not endtfre the
thought, therefore, of dooming their age to the iron hand of tyranny, to whatsoever poverty I might myself be reduced.
Thus resolved, I assembled them together; and, to the best of my remembrance, spoke to them in the following manner.
‘MY HONEST FRIENDS,
‘You see it has pleased heaven to deprive me of that affluence of which I was formerly possessed: you have all been faithful and affectionate; and many of you have spent your youth up in my own or my father’s service. Assure yourselves, then, that I do not consider it the least of my sorrows, that fortune has not left it in my power to render your age peaceful and independent, as your youth has been faithful and industrious. But that God, whom you have been taught to adore, will befriend you, if you continue to serve him with humility, with patience, and with resignation. Do not however imagine, I conjure you, that I mean to doom you to foreign slavery; no, my friends, you are from this moment free. Liberty is all your poor mistress has to bestow on you; all she has now left to recompense you for your faithful services.’
It is impossible to describe the effect this address produced on the negroes; not a dry eye was seen among them: so far from being elated with the freedom offered them, they seemed desirous of rushing again into slavery, that I might reap the benefit arising from the sale of them.
This striking instance of their gratitude served only to confirm me in my resolution; so that, after bedewing my hand with their tears, they all departed, except one negro girl, who threw herself at my feet, with the most lively expression of grief, entreating me to kill her rather than discard her; declaring, that she preferred death to that of being separated from me. I could not withstand this mark of her affection, more particularly as my Theodore, whom, you now see the companion of my misfortunes, was then an infant, and my weak state of health rendered me incapable of paying him that unremitted attention his tender years required. With this girl I retired to a small abode, in a distant part of the island, and resigned myself wholly to the care of Providence; the money I had raised on the plantation before-mentioned, being now very nigh exhausted.
On the evening of the second day after my arrival, I perceived the negroes I had discharged advancing towards my new habitation. They had been at work on some plantations, and were approaching, to share with me the fruits of their honest industry.
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At first I absolutely rejected their generous offer; but, finding that my refusal sensibly afflicted them, I consented to accept a third part of the money they offered.
From this day they constantly persisted in devoting to me the above portion of their wages, accompanied with such evident marks of satisfaction, that my acceptance of their services seemed to afford them the highest pleasure they were capable of enjoying.
In this solitude I remained twelve years; during which time I made frequent inquiries after my husband, writing repeatedly to several of my father’s correspondents in America; but could not gain the least intelligence concerning him. I continued, therefore, entirely supported by the affectionate negroes, by whose assistance I was supplied, not only with the necessaries, but, I may add, even with the comforts of life. This state of dependence was, however, to an ingenuous mind, painful and humiliating; but I had, alas! no other resource!
My chief employment and delight was that of cultivating and improving those talents and virtues with which heaven had endued my beloved son: for his sake, I once more courted the sciences and the Muses, from whom sorrow had long estranged me.
My days were thus gliding on, when I became acquainted with a gentleman, named Seamore: he had formerly been a captain in the navy, and had spent his youth in the service of his country; but finding that the upstarts of an hour too frequently bore off the well-earned prize from the hardy veteran, he resolved no more to hazard the dangers of the deep, but to forget the toils of war in the serene joys of domestic life. With this intention, and the hopes of improving a moderate fortune, he purchased a large plantation in the island; to which he retired with his daughter, the fair Juliana. This gentleman was acquainted with my unhappy story by one of my negroes, employed on his plantation: he expressed an earnest desire to see me; which being related to me, the negro with my permission conducted him one evening, accompanied with his daughter, to our obscure retreat.
Juliana appeared to be about sixteen years of age. Her stature was below the middle height, but finely proportioned; her features were delicate; and, as the poet beautifully says of L^vinia, “The modest virtues mingled in her eyes .” 1
On their entrance she entreated me, with an air of peculiar
sweetness, to pardon that curiosity, excited by my superior virtues and unmerited misfortunes.
I found little difficulty in returning this compliment; for there was something so engaging in her aspect, that I uttered only the sentiments of my heart, when I assured her that, to whatever cause I was indebted for this visit, I should consider it with pleasure, since it introduced me to one so truly amiable.
From that time scarce a day passed in which we did not see each other. The captain discovered a striking partiality for my dear boy, and generously offered to be the patron of his future fortunes.
Not long after this, I perceived an alarming change in my Theodore; his vivacity forsook him, he grew thoughtful and melancholy, and a total decline of health seemed gradually to have taken place.
One day, when I had been for some time endeavouring to discover if any secret grief was the occasion of this unhappy alteration in him, he said, ‘Alas! my mother, it is an hopeless, guilty passion, that is thus consuming my youth. It is love, to which honour, gratitude, and every tie of friendship, forbids me to aspire.—And yet who could behold thee, Juliana, and resist thy soft attractions? Thy innocence, thy beauty, and thy heavenly goodness!—Oh, fortune! till now, I was insensible of thy unkindness! Possessed of health and content, I sighed not for affluence I never knew. But love has taught me to be ambitious! Why was the curse of poverty entailed on me? Why am I doomed to languish in sight of that bliss I must never enjoy?’
He then told me that chance had discovered the situation of his heart to Juliana, and that they had exchanged vows of eternal truth. ‘But, alas!’ continued he, ‘can I, to gratify my own passion, thus impose on the unsuspecting openness of my generous patron? Can I return his friendship by seducing his lovely daughter from the path of duty; by seducing her into the arms of one who, by that action, will dispossess himself of his only inheritance, his honour and integrity? No, my mother, rather let me lose her for ever, than, by baseness and ingratitude, cease to deserve her!’ I embraced him with transport, and looked up with gratitude to heaven for blessing me with a son whose virtues so highly adorned human nature. Yet this excess of joy was damped by the miserable reflection, that I might perhaps in a short time lose him forever. I tried every effort to divert the deep melancholy to which, with sorrow, I beheld him daily made the prey; but finding all my attempts ineffectual, I resolved to remove to a
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more distant part of the island; hoping that absence and change of objects might restore to my beloved son his wonted serenity.
With this resolution, I went one morning to our friend, and disclosed to him the means I proposed taking, to extinguish a passion, which promised to be fatal, not only to my Theodore, but, if suffered to take too deep root, highly injurious to the peace of his charming daughter.
When I had concluded, the captain, to my surprise, instead of betraying the least chagrin or displeasure at the discovery of the reciprocal attachment between his daughter and Theodore, told me, that he could not discern the least reason why it should be injurious to either: ‘If they love each other, why, my dear friend,’ said he, ‘should we prevent their happiness? The virtues and accomplishments of your son will, I am persuaded, more than counterbalance the trifling advantage which fortune has given to Juliana.’
I was astonished at this uncommon instance of generosity. ‘These,’ said I to myself, ‘are the warm effusions of an heart uncorrupted by the sordid maxims of the world!’ I flew immediately to communicate the joyful tidings to my beloved Theodore; .but will not attempt to describe his transports. The happiness of his amiable mistress was not less complete; her lips, now with pride, confessed the passion her heart had long cherished.
The hours were revolving in this uninterrupted course of tranquility, when the generous Seamore was called to England by the death of a friend, who had appointed him sole guardian to an only child. He had, indeed, for some time before meditated a return to the place of his nativity; but this event hastened his resolution. We were to accompany him; and, at the request of Juliana, her nuptials with Theodore were to be deferred till our arrival in England.
In a short period we began our voyage; and sailed for some weeks without interruption; when a storm arising, we were in great danger of falling victims to its rage: our vessel continued two days at the mercy of the tremendous hurricane; but at the close of the second, when the loud billows began to sink in peace, and serenity again to smile on the agitated deep, we perceived that a part of the ship had taken fire. *
It is impossible to describe the horror, the consternation, and' unspeakable anguish, which was variously pictured in the countenances of the wretched crew. Our only resource was that of the long boat which was immediately hoisted and filled. Our noble friend, with the commander of the vessel, had been for some time
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endeavouring to extinguish the flames; but finding every effort fruitless, he turned his whole thoughts on his daughter, and was approaching to convey her into the boat, when the flames, which had communicated themselves to that part of the ship on which he stood, compelled him to seek instant protection in the waves. Juliana, who had till now supported herself with fortitude, superior to her age or sex; on beholding the dire fate of her father, fainted in her lover’s arms. I perceived the contending passions which agitated the soul of my Theodore: duty and love at once divided his affections. I entreated him to waste no time on me, but instantly to convey the afflicted maid into the boat. This request he complied with, thinking, when he had placed her in safety, to return and provide for mine and his own: but, alas! he was no sooner in it, than the sailors pushed off from the ship, declaring that if more were suffered to enter, the boat must inevitably be overset.
My Theodore, in the most pathetic manner, endeavoured to prevail upon them. To take me with them, offering to trust his own life to the mercy of the waves: our friend likewise, whom we had before the happiness of seeing preserved, by the timely interposition of the sailors, urged this request in vain; and thus every hope for my escape seemed cut off.
The grief which spoke in the countenance of my Theodore, on perceiving the boat row from the ship, is inexpressible. But what was my astonishment when I beheld the affectionate youth plunge into the waves, and swim back towards the vessel! I lost all thought of my own situation, wholly absorbed in the fate of one dearer to me than life. I conjured him, in accents incoherent, to return to the boat, and not let me die a death more painful than that which awaited me, by seeing him perish. He was, however, deaf to my remonstrances; and when he had swam within a few yards of the vessel, at his request I threw myself from the deck: as I fell, with one hand he caught a part of my garment, by which he for some time supported me amidst the surrounding waves. But his strength being at length exhausted, we were on the point of sinking, when providentially we were discovered and taken up by some fishermen in a small skiff.
As soon as we were set on shore, our care was to make the strictest inquiry after our friend and his lovely daughter, whom we flattered ourselves had escaped in safety to some part of the coast. Our hopes were alas! disappointed; our endeavors to discover them proved fruitless; and at length we heard, with unutterable grief, that a boat full of passengers, which appeared to be
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escaping from some wreck, was seen to overset; by which means the unfortunate crew must inevitably have perished. This, it is too probable, was that in which our lamented friends took refuge. Theodore’s grief was severe beyond conception. We resolved, however, to sail for England; for which place we were certain, should our fears prove groundless, they would likewise embark.
Fortunately, I had presence of mind, before we left the ship, to secure twenty guineas in a handkerchief; with the assistance of which we procured our passage, and arrived at Portsmouth: but this, at the conclusion of our voyage, was reduced to two guineas; with which we resolved to travel by short stages to London, where we might, from some of their connections, either gain intelligence of our unfortunate friends, or, what was more probable, be ourselves the messengers of their sad catastrophe.
We began our journey; but at the end of three days, notwithstanding the most rigid economy, our cash was entirely exhausted. I leave you, Madam, whose heart wealth cannot steel against the sympathetic feelings of woe, to imagine the horrors of our situation, destitute of friends or money, in a land of strangers, and deprived even of a sheltering habitation, in which we might unmolested breathe our last sigh.
In this forlorn state we continued our way, till I became so weak that I found it impossible to proceed further: I doubted not but my last hour was at hand; death seemed to promise a speedy oblivion to all my cares; but it required more than human fortitude to support the stroke which severed me from my Theodore, whom filial tenderness had rendered dearer to me than the tie of nature.
The thought of leaving him friendless, exposed to want and sorrow, filled my soul with those tortures which the most agonizing dissolution could not have caused. I swooned in his arms; and was conveyed, by the distracted youth, into that field in which our miseries first excited your generous compassion.
“Alas!” said Mrs. Sedley, as the narrative concluded, “how unequal are the distributions of Providence! Surely, my dear unfortunate friend, a larger portion of human ills than usual, have imbittered thy life. Whence is it, that the heart, warmed and expanded by the social virtues, should be thus suffered to‘*shrink at the touch of poverty? Methinks it militates against the laws of justice; and nothing but the certainty of a future state can reconcile us to it.”
“It ill becomes us,” replied the Creole, “to arraign the dispensations of the most High: adversity is the lot of man, designed by
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Heaven to wean him from these transient scenes, and fix his hopes on bliss more permanent; without it the virtues of patience and resignation would have no existence.”
How amiable, how forcible, is your philosophy!” said Mrs. Sedly “if you, my friend, encompassed by sorrows and misfortune, can repress the sigh of accusation, how ought my heart to dilate with gratitude for the happiness I enjoy, possessed of an affluent fortune, and blessed in the affections of a man whose virtues render him the delight and admiration of all around him! Oh, Mrs. Groveby!' were you but acquainted with his amiable qualities, how would your tongue, like mine, grow lavish in his praise!” Mr. Sedley had been for some weeks on a party of pleasure; the strangers, therefore, had not yet had an opportunity of seeing him; but, from the lively picture which his fond wife drew, they already viewed him with the highest admiration.
His return was now expected daily; and the impatient Harriot began affectionately to count the moments of his delay.
At length she had the joy of seeing the chaise approach. Mrs. Groveby and her son, conscious of the delicacy of their situation, retired to another part of the house, while their generous benefactress flew on the wings of love to welcome her husband. How, alas! were her joys blasted, when she perceived him borne into the hall, pale and fainting. Severe as this shock was, she endeavoured to support it with fortitude, lest any tender attention to her unfortunate husband, who had been wounded in a duel, should be omitted. She attended him to his chamber, and hung over him with unutterable grief. When a surgeon had examined the wound, he pronounced it to be mortal; and advised him, if he had any temporal affairs to settle, to lose no time in adjusting them. Mrs. Sedley was no sooner acquainted with this melancholy sentence, than she fainted; and was conveyed by her attendants into another apartment, where the amiable Creole, by participating her sorrows, endeavouring to alleviate them.
Her anxiety, however, did not suffer her to remain long absent from her husband, from whom she feared death would in a short period divide her for ever. When Sedley perceived her again enter the chamber, he made signs for the servants to leave the room; and, pressing her hand, spoke to her in the following manner.
I find, my dear Harriot, (said he) that I am hastening to eternity; “cut off even with the blossoms of my sins :” 1 I have.
perhaps, but a few short hours to live; let me therefore employ them, by atoning, in some measure, for my past offences, by vindicating the innocent, and making what reparation is yet in my power to those I have injured.
I had not been many hours at Dover, at which place we proposed staying some days, before the packet-boat arrived from France: I, with many others, flocked to the beach, in order to view the passengers; (fatal curiousity!) among whom was a young woman of exquisite beauty: she walked from the boat with a melancholy, dejected air, leaning on the arm of an old man, whom I imagined to be her father.
I will frankly confess, that from the first moment of beholding her, I was captivated by her charms; and resolved, contrary to all laws of honour and humanity, to gratify my base desires.
I found little difficulty in introducing myself to their acquaintance, as they slept in the same inn at which I lodged; and discovered, that they were on their way to London, but that they did not intend to pursue their journey till they received letters, which they were hourly in expectation of. I was rejoiced at this information, as I thought it would give me time to ingratiate myself with my fair enslaver with whom I became more and more enamoured. In a few days they received letters they expected and prepared to renew their journey. Unwilling so soon to relinquish the object of my pursuit, I pretended business, and accompanied them to London. There I took every opportunity of pleading my passion to my fair mistress; but she continued inflexible and unmoved.
I as obstinately continued to pursue her; till, after repeated remonstrances, she was constrained to free herself from my importunities, by discovering my base designs to her father.
The unsuspecting captain, who imagined the hearts of all men as generous and unpolluted as his own, was fired with indignation at the treachery and dissimulation of my conduct. He reproached me in the most bitter language his honest resentment could dictate; which I retorted with equal if not superior asperity, till a challenge seemed the only alternative to appease the injured pride and honour of both.
We went immediately to a retired part of the town, anef drew upon each other; but were soon interrupted by some people, who overheard the dispute, and suspected our design: they did not, however, arrive before I had received the wound, which will in a short time terminate my existence.
My antagonist was taken into custody; and I was conveyed to
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an adjacent tavern, where a surgeon being arrived, pronounced my wounds to be dangerous.
I was no sooner acquainted with his opinion, than I determined, contrary to the humane persuasions of those around me, to be instantly conveyed home, for, alas! I had wounds of the soul, which wanted the hand of conjugal fidelity to heal.
Oh! Harriot, bear witness, when I am no more, that with my latest breath I acknowledge myself the aggressor, and from my soul acquit my noble friend.
Into what an abyss of grief has not my folly plunged him! What pangs does not his amiable daughter suffer from reflecting, that the merciless hand of justice will, perhaps, tear from her the tenderest of parents!
Suffer them not to languish under the cruel thought; send them instant intelligence, that I confess the justice of my doom, and pronounce the innocence of my friend.
Mrs. Sedley lost no time in executing the desires of her husband; she immediately dispatched Theodore to the unfortunate captain and likewise letters to some powerful friends, requesting their interest to procure his speedy enlargement.
After this, she returned overwhelmed with sorrow to the chamber of her husband, whom she endeavoured to console with the hopes of returning health.
‘No,’ said he, ‘my hour is at hand’; I shall soon appear at that grand tribunal, where our actions are weighed in the balance of impartial justice; where guilt is seen in its native deformity, and where virtue brightens into perfection. Oh! that I had reflected on this e’er it had been too late; but, intoxicated with success, I forgot that I was mortal, and darkened those hours with vice, which heaven deigned that virtue should illumine.
Oh! Harriot, listen, while I unfold a tale, at which your gentle nature will recoil.
It was the will of heaven not to increase the native pride and vanity which I possessed, by giving me an illustrious birth; my father, being distinguished only by honesty of heart, and simplicity of manners.
He resided many years in the family of a man of high rank, who intrusted him with the management of his estates, in which he acquitted himself with unblemished integrity. Being frequently with my father, I was early introduced to the notice of his noble patron; who was so pleased with the vivacity and pliability of my temper, that he offered to educate me with his own son. This proposal was too advantageous to be rejected, and I was immediately
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taken under his protection. A few months after he had adopted me, our generous friend accepted a lucrative post in America, to which place we accompanied him. There I made a rapid progress in my studies, and arrived at my nineteenth year. My kind patron then began to think of procuring me some employment suitable to the education he had liberally bestowed on me; and was on the point of purchasing for me a commission in the army, when a paralytic stroke in a few weeks put an end to his existence.
All my shining prospects now vanished; for I had but faint hopes of protection from the son of my benefactor, who by no means inherited his father’s virtues.
My patron was no sooner dead, than his heir threw off the guise of friendship, which he had till then worn, and gave me to understand, that I must no longer expect countenance or protection from him, but instantly seek another residence.
I was much hurt and chagrined at this treatment from one whom I was conscious I had never deliberately injured. I had, indeed, always suspected that he entertained no real esteem for me and was sensible that he viewed my acquirements with an invidious and malignant eye; but did not imagine him capable, so soon, of violating the laws of hospitality. Fortunately for me, my father, who expired a few months before, had left me possessed of one hundred pounds, with which I resolved to embark for the West Indies, where I flattered myself I might obtain some advantageous employment, as I knew I could be well recommended to persons of rank there.
I immediately proceeded to put this scheme into execution, and agreed for my passage in a vessel, which was to sail in a few weeks.
During this fatal period, the ship arrived from England which conveyed you, my Harriot, supreme in youthful beauty, to the American shore. I gazed—I loved! my whole soul was lost in speechless admiration! With faltering accents I inquired into your name and family; and, oh! with torture, heard that fortune had placed you far, far beyond the reach of my romantic hopes.
I frequented all places of public resort, where I had the least opportunity of seeing you; and frequently attempted to converse with you; but, as you were constantly attended by your father or some friend, my endeavours were frustrated.
The time of my departure at length drew nigh: I was on the brink of exiling myself for ever from the woman on whom my soul doated with the most extravagant fondness: and yet, to what purpose would have been further delay?
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Could an obscure youth, undistinguished by birth or fortune, dare to aspire to the heiress of Sir Charles Saville? What madness! what presumption!
In this agitated frame of mind, I embarked for the West Indies; but, on my arrival there, understood that a generous and wealthy planter, to whom I had letters of recommendation, was lately deceased.
I introduced myself, however, to his daughter, who received me politely; and, with an air of amiable frankness, gave me free access to her elegant mansion. She was a young woman who possessed one of the largest fortunes in the -island; but, unlike the generality of her sex, she secluded herself from the excess and folly to which wealth too frequently gives birth.
I had not been her guest long, before I observed that she grew thoughtful; and after some time discovered, that her heart was impressed by the most tender passion, of which I believed myself to be the object: her looks, her actions, her sighs betrayed that which her modesty strove in vain to conceal.
This was, at first, far from affording me satisfaction; for my whole soul being engaged by the charming image of my Harriot, I viewed ail other women with contempt and indifference. Conscious, however, of the extravagance of my passion, and not wholly insensible to the advantages arising from an alliance with the amiable Creole, I endeavoured to oppose the cool arguments of reason and interest to the impetuosity of love; and, at length, acquired so far an ascendancy over my passion, that I resolved to take advantage of the partiality which Zemira entertained for me. I easily persuaded her that our affection was mutual; so eagerly do we grasp at the illusion we ardently wish to be real! and in a few months led her to the altar, and made her mine by the most solemn ties.
In the society of my amiable wife, I now endeavoured to forget those fatal charms, the remembrance of which had so long embittered my hours; for oh! to my confusion, I must acknowledge she possessed sweetness of temper, understanding, and accomplishments, sufficient to have made even the most capricious of our sex completely happy. We spent two years together in one tranquil scene of domestic quiet, when I accidentally received information that you, my Harriot, still continued single and disengaged.
Trivial as this circumstance may appear, it revived that fatal passion, which time had almost extinguished; and those charms, on which I had gazed before with admiration, were now rendered
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more resistless by the powerful magic of fancy. The society of my Zemira grew every hour less pleasing; my existence became insufferable, and at length I formed and executed the most villainous design that ever disgraced the heart of man.
My fond wife had, on the day of our marriage, generously presented me with deeds and writings, which invested me with unlimited power over that wealth which she abundantly possessed: with these, dead to every feeling of justice, honour, or humanity, I embarked secretly for America; leaving my unsuspecting Zemira, with her infant son, exposed to all the horrors of indigence and despair. What agonizing pangs do not the reflection now cost me! What worlds would I not give to consign that one base action to the depths of oblivion!
At America, to elude all inquiries which might be made after me, I changed my name from Groveby to that of Sedley.
“Groveby!” exclaimed Mrs. Sedley; “then indeed my conjectures were, but too well founded!”
From America, (continued the expiring man) I sailed for England; where I heard that you, my Harriot, resided: and soon after my arrival, by the power of that wealth I so unjustly possessed, obtained the permission of your guardian to address you. What followed I need not add: my passion was not unsuccessful; and in a few months I was happy in making you mine by the strongest of all human engagements.
“How will it surprize you,” replied Mrs. Sedley, “to find that I am no stranger to the unfortunate Zemira! though I little imagined myself so nearly interested in her sorrows.” She then related, in a few words, the melancholy circumstances in which she discovered the amiable Creole and concluded with assuring him that she was at that moment in the house.
Sedley raised his eyes to heaven with astonishment and admiration; and, having remained silent a few minutes, said that he would endeavour to summon fortitude to support an interview with his much-injured wife.
The gentle Harriot then left the apartment of her husband, and went into her own dressing-room, to communicate the discovery to her friend. She found her so deeply engaged in the contemplation of a gold chain which she had taken from the table, that she did not at first perceive the entrance of her benefactress; and when she looked up, her countenance was so visibly discomposed, that, agitated as her own mind was, Mrs. Sedley could not forbear observing it, and inquiring into the cause.
“Alas, Madam!” replied she, “it is not now a time to intrude
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my sorrows on you. Only tell me, I conjure you, by what means you became possessed of this chain? for, oh! it is the same which, on our nuptial day, I gave to my perfidious Groveby!”
“Prepare, yourself,” said Mrs. Sedley embracing her tenderly, for tidings the most distressing and severe; for a scene of woe in which we are mutually involved! Oh! my friend, I am the wretched, though innocent cause of your sufferings! How shall I utter it; how will your generous nature bear the thought, that, Groveby and Sedley are but one! The story is long; and but an hour past I was blessed with ignorance. But let us not waste the precious moments; the expiring Groveby waits for you with impatience, to receive his last repentant sigh!”
The Creole, who to the softest sensibility united a dignity of mind, which enabled her to meet with fortitude the severest shocks of fortune, followed her friend into the chamber of her expiring husband.
On her entrance, notwithstanding he had endeavoured to prepare himself for the melancholy interview, it was with the utmost difficulty he was prevented from fainting; while his injured and compassionate wife, kneeling at his bedside, bedewed his hand with tears of pity and forgiveness. Having gazed on her for some time, “Justice,” said he, “has at length overtaken me!— Thy wrongs, Zemira, will be revenged: death approaches, armed with the keen arrows of guilt, to sink my despairing soul into everlasting anguish!”
Zemira could interrupt him but with tears.
“Oh, thou injured saint!” continued he, “this goodness overpowers me. How much better could I have borne the keenest reproaches! they could not thus have pierced my soul! Canst thou indeed forgive? Canst thou forget?”
Here the agitation of his spirits became so violent that he was unable for some minutes to proceed. He then resumed: “I find that life is ebbing apace: adieu, my much-injured Zemira! You will find I have made you what reparation was in my power, by restoring that wealth of which I so unjustly deprived you. Farewell, my Harriot! I am on the verge of eternity. How dreadful is the prospect! And yet a ray of hope illumines the dreary path: unbounded is the mercy of heaven!—Tell Theodore—” Death ■closed the period: he fell back in a swoon; and in a few minutes after expired.
Mrs. Sedley gave way to all the extravagance of unrestrained grief; but the Creole, familiarized to sorrow, beheld the corpse of her repentant husband with an uncommon firmness of mind:
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“When I look back,” said she,
When I look back on all my former days.
The only comfort the review affords.
Is that they’re past.
For thro’ their course I cannot recollect
One free from sorrow, guilt, or disappointment . 1
Theodore, who was, at the request of Sedley, dispatched to his unfortunate antagonist, arrived in a short time at the place of his confinement. But here let me drop my pen, nor attempt to describe emotions: on his entrance he discovered Seamore, and his beloved Juliana!
Overpowered by surprise and joy beholding the dear youth whom she imagined death had for ever torn from her embraces, she fainted in the arms of her lover: his caresses, however, soon recalled her fleeting spirits; and her happiness was rendered complete by the assurance he gave her of her father’s safety, and likewise that of his amiable mother. In return, Seamore informed him, that the boat in which they escaped was driven by adverse winds on the coast of France; and recited their adventure with Sedley, at Dover; of which Theodore had before but imperfectly heard. The duteous youth did not long indulge himself in the society of his Juliana; impatient for his mother to participate in his joy, he lost no time in bearing to her the happy tidings; and with astonishment was made acquainted with the reverse of fortune which had taken place during his absence.
The generous Creole, who rejoiced that it was now in her power to recompense the filial piety of her beloved son, instantly put into his possession that wealth which his repentant father had resigned, reserving only to herself a moderate income. Seamore was in a few weeks honourably acquitted; and increased their happiness by his presence, at Sedley Hall; where the nuptials of the enraptured Theodore with his Juliana were celebrated.
The amiable Creole spent the evening of her days in peace; and, in an uninterrupted scene of tranquility, lost the remembrance of those sorrows which had discolored the former part of her life. She preserved the most inviolate friendship for Mrs. Sedley; who at her death, having no relations, bequeathed to her •
friend the whole of her fortune; which being considerable, enabled the generous Zemira to exercise, in a more extensive degree, that benevolence of soul for which the was so eminently characterized.