Letter I.
Miss Harriet Byron to Miss Lucy Selby.
Friday, March 31. You now, my dear friends, have before you this affecting story, as far as Dr. Bartlett can give it. My cousins express a good deal of concern for your Harriet: so does Miss Grandison: so do my Lord and Lady L.: and the more, as I seem to carry off the matter with assumed bravery. This their kind concern for me looks, however, as if they thought me a hypocrite; and I suppose, therefore that I act my part very awkwardly.
But, my dear, as this case is one of those few in which a woman ran shew a bravery of spirit, I think an endeavour after it is laudable; and the rather, as in my conduct I aim at giving a tacit example to Miss Jervois.
The doctor has whispered to me, that Lady Oli-via is actually on her way to England; and that the intelligence Sir Charles received of her intention, was one of the things that disturbed him, as the news of his beloved Signor Jeronymo’s dangerous condition was another.
Lady Ann S. it seems has not yet given up her hopes of Sir Charles. The two sisters, who once favoured her above all the women they knew, have not been able to bring themselves to acquaint a lady of her rank and merit, that there can be no hopes; and they are still more loth to say, that their bro-ther thinks himself under some obligations to a fo — reign lady. Yet you know that this was always what we were afraid of: but, who, now, will say afraid, that knows the merit of Clementina?
I wish, methinks, that this man were proud, vain, arrogant, and a boaster. How easily then might one throw off one’s shackles!
Lord G. is very diligent in his court to Miss Grandison. His father and aunt are to visit her this afternoon. She behaves whimsically to my lord: yet I cannot think that she greatly dislikes him.
The Earl of D. and the countess dowager are both in town. The countess made a visit to my cousin Reeves last Tuesday: she spoke of me very kindly: she says my lord has heard so much of me, that he is very desirous of seeing me: but she was pleased to say, that since my heart was not disen-gaged, she should be afraid of the consequences of his visit to himself.
My grandmamma, though she was so kindly fond of me, would not suffer me to live with her; because she thought, that her contemplative temper might
S.IK CHARLES GRANDISON. 3 influence mine, and make me grave, at a time of life, when she is always saying that cheerfulness is most becoming: she would therefore turn over her girl to the best of aunts. But now 1 fancy, she will allow me to be more than two days in a week her attendant. My uncle Selby will be glad to spare me. I shall not be able to bear a jest: and then what shall I be good for?
I have made a fine hand of coming to town, he says: and so I have: but if my heart is not quite so easy as it was, it is, I hope, a better, at least, not a worse heart than I brought up with me. Could I only have admired this man, my excursion would not have been unhappy. But this gratitude, this entangling, with all its painful consequences But let me say, with my grandmamma, the man is Sir Charles Grandison! The very man by whose virtues a Clementina was attracted. Upon my word, my dear, unhappy as she is, I rank her with the first of women.
I have not had a great deal of Sir Charles Grandison’s company; but yet more, I am afraid, than I shall ever have again. Very true O heart! the most wayward of hearts, sigh if thou wilt!
You have seen how seldom he was with us, when we were absolutely in his reach, and when he, as we thought, was in ours. But such a man cannot, ought not to be engrossed by one family. Bless me, Lucy, when he comes into public life (for has not his country a superior claim to him beyond every private one?) what moment can he have at liberty? Let me enumerate some of his present engagements that we know of.
The Danby family must have some further portion of his time.
The executorship in the disposal of the 3000/. in charity, in France as well as in England, will take up a good deal more.
My Lord W. may be said to be under his tu-telage, as to the future happiness of his life.
Miss Jervois’s affairs, and the care he has for her person, engage much of his attention.
He is his own steward.
He is making alterations at Grandison-hall; and has a large genteel neighbourhood there, who long to have him reside among them; and he himself is fond of that seat.
His estate in Ireland is in a prosperous way, from the works he set on foot there, when he was on the spot; and he talks, as Dr. Bartlett has hinted to us, of making another visit to it.
His sister’s match with Lord G. is one of his cares.
He has services to perform for his friend Beau-champ, with his father and mother-inlaw, for the facilitating his coming over.
The apprehended visit of Olivia gives him disturbance.
And the Bologna family in its various branches, and more especially Signor Jeronymo’s dangerous state of health, and Signora Clementina’s disordered mind O Lucy! What leisure has this man to be in love! Yet how can I say so, when he is in love already? And with Clementina And don’t you think, that when he goes to France on the executor-ship account, he will make a visit to Bologna? Ah, my dear, to be sure he will.
After he has left England therefore, which I sup-pose he will quickly do, and when I am in North — amptonshire, what opportunities will your Harriet have to see him, except she can obtain, as a favour, the power of obliging his Emily, in her request to be with her? Then, Lucy, he may, on his return to England, once a year, or so, on his visiting his ward, see, and thank for her care and love of his Emily, his half-estranged Harriet! Perhaps Lady Clemen-tina Grandison will be with him! God restore her! Surely I shall be capable, if she be Lady Grandison, of rejoicing in her recovery!
Fie upon it! Why this involuntary tear? You would see it by the large blot it has made, if I did not mention it.
Excellent man! Dr. Bartlett has just been telling me of a morning visit he received, before he went out of town, from the two sons of Mrs. Oldham.
One of them is about seven years old; the other about five; very fine children. He embraced them, the doctor says, with as much tenderness, as if they were children of his own mother. He enquired into their inclinations, behaviour, diversions; and engaged equally their love and reverence.
He told them, that, if they were good, he would love them; and said, he had a dear friend, whom he reverenced as his father, a man with white curling locks, he told the children, that they might know him at first sight, who would now-and-then, as he happened to be in town, make enquiries after their good behaviour, and reward them, as they gave him cause. Accordingly he had desired Dr. Bartlett to give them occasionally his countenance; as also to let their mother know, that he should be glad of a visit from her, and her three children, on his return to town.
The doctor had been to see her when he came to me. He found all three with her. The two younger, impressed by the venerable description Sir Charles had given of him, of their own accord, the younger, by the elder’s example, fell down on their knees In fore him, and begged his blessing r. 3
Mr. Oldham is about eighteen years of age; a well-inclined, well-educated youth. He was full of acknowledgments of the favour done him in this invitation.
The grateful mother could not contain herself. Blessings without number she invoked on her bene-factor for his goodness in taking such kind notice of her two sons, as he had done; and said, he had been, ever since his gracious behaviour to her in Essex, the first and last in her prayers to Heaven. But the invitation to herself, she declared, was too great an honour for her to accept of: she should not be able to stand in his presence. Alas! Sir, said she, can the severest, truest penitence recal the guilty past?
The doctor said, that Sir Charles Grandison ever made it a rule with him to raise the dejected and humble spirit. Your birth and education, madam, intitle you to a place in the first company: and where there are two lights in which the behaviour of any person may be set, though there has been unhappiness, he always remembers the most favourable, and forgets the other. I would advise you, madam (as he has invited you) by all means to come. He speaks with pleasure of your humility and good sense.
The doctor told me, that Sir Charles had made enquiries after the marriage of Major O’Hara with Mrs. Jervois, and had satisfied himself that they were actually man and wife. Methinks I am glad, for Miss Jervois’s sake, that her mother has changed her name. They lived not happily together since their last enterprize. For the man, who had long been a sufferer from poverty, was in fear of losing one half at least of his wife’s annuity, by what passed on that occasion; and accused her of putting him upon the misbehaviour he was guilty of; which had
Sill CHARLES GRANDISON. 7 brought upon him, he said, the resentments of man admired by all the world.
The attorney, who visited Sir Charles from these people, at their request, waited on him again, in their names., with hopes that they should not suffer in their annuity, and expressing their concern for having offended him.
Mrs. O’Hara also requested it as a favour to see her daughter.
Sir Charles commissioned the attorney, who is a man of repute, to tell them, that if Mrs. O’Hara would come to St. James’s Square next Tuesday about five o’clock, Miss Jervoisshould be introduced to her; and she should be welcome to bring with her her husband, and Captain Salmonet, that they might be convinced he bore no ill-will to either of them.
Adieu, till by and-by. Miss Grandison is come, in one of her usual hurries, to oblige me to be present at the visit to be made her this afternoon, by the Earl of G. and Lady Gertrude, his sister, a maiden lady advanced in years, who is exceedingly fond of her nephew, and intends to make him heir of her large fortune.
Friday night.
The earl is an agreeable man: Lady Gertrude is a very agreeable woman. They saw Miss Grandison with the young lord’s eyes; and were better pleased with her, as I told her afterwards, than /should have been, or than they would, had they known her as well as I do. She doubted not, she answered me, but I should find fault with her; and yet she was as good as for her life she could be.
Such an archness in every motion! Such a turn of the eye to me on my Lord G.‘s assiduities! Such a fear in him of her correcting glance! Such a half-tiinid, half-free parade when he had done any thing that he intended to be obliging, and now and then an aiming at raillery, as if he were not very mueh afraid of her, and dared to speak his mind even to her! On her part, on those occasions, such an air, as if she had a learner before her; and was ready to rap his knuckles, had nobody been present to medi-ate for him; that though I could not but love her for her very archness, yet in my mind, I could for their sakes, but more for her own, have severely chidden her.
She is a charming woman; and every thing she says and does becomes her. But I am so much afraid of what may be the case, when the lover is changed into the husband, that I wish to myself now-and-then, when I see her so lively, that she would re — member that there was once such a man as Captain Anderson. But she makes it a rule, she says, to remember nothing that will vex her.
Is not my memory (said she once) given me for my benefit, and shall I make it my torment? No, Harriet, I will leave that to be done by you wise ones, and see what good you will get by it.
Why this, Charlotte, replied I, the wise ones may have a chance to get by it They will very probably, by remembering past mistakes, avoid many incon-veniences into which forgetfulness will run you lively ones.
Well, well, returned she, we are not all of us born to equal honour. Some of us are to be set up for warnings, some for examples: and the first are ge-nerally of greater use to the world than the other. Now, Charlotte, said I, do you destroy the force of your own argument. Can the person who is singled out for the warning) be near so happy as the that is set up for the example?
You are right, as far as I know, Harriet: but I obey the present impulse, and try to find an excuse afterwards for what that puts me upon: and all the difference is this, as to the reward, I have a joy: you a comfort: but comfort is a poor word; and I can’t bear it.
So Biddy in the Tender Husband would have said, Charlotte. But poor as the word is with you and her, give me comfort rather than joy, if they must be separated. But I see not but that a woman of my Charlotte’s happy turn may have both.
She tapped my cheek Take that, Harriet, for making a Biddy of me. I believe, if you have not joy, you have comfort, in your severity.
My heart as well as my cheek glowed at the praises the earl and the lady both joined in (with a fervor that was creditable to their own hearts) of Sir Charles Grandison, while they told us what this man, and that woman, of quality or consideration, said of him. Who would not be good? What is life without reputation? Do we not wish to be re-membered with honour after death? And what a share of it has this excellent man in his life! May nothing, for the honour-sake of human nature, to which he is so great an ornament, ever happen to tarnish it!
They were extremely obliging to me. I could not but be pleased at standing well in their opinion: but, believe me. my dear, I did not enjoy their praises of me, as I did those they gave him. Indeed, I had the presumption, from the approbation given to what they said of him by my own heart, to imagine my-self a sharer in them, though not in his merits. Oh, Lucy! ought there not to have been a relation between us, since what I have said, from what I found in myself on hearing him praised, is a demon-stration of a regard for him superior to the love of self?
Adieu, my Lucy. I know I have all your prayers. Adieu, my dear.’
Letter II.
Miss Byron. In Continuation.
Saturday, April I.
Dr. Bartlett is one of the kindest as well as best of men. I believe he loves me as if I were his own child: but good men must be affectionate men. He received but this morning a letter from Sir Charles, and hastened to communicate some of its contents to me, though I could pretend to no other motive but curiosity for wishing to be acquainted with the proceedings of his patron.
Sir Charles dined, as he had intended, with Sir Hargrave and his friends. He complains in his letter of a riotous day: “ Yet I think, adds he, it has led me into some useful reflections. It is not indeed agreeable to be the spectator of riot; but how easy to shun being a partaker in it! How easy to avoid the too freely circling glass, if a man is known to have established a rule to himself, from which he will not depart; and if it be not refused sullenly, but mirth and good humour the more stu-diously kept up by the person; who would else in deed be looked upon as a spy on unguarded folly! I heartily pitied a young man, who, 1 dare say, has a good heart, but from false shame durst not assert the freedom to which every Englishman would claim u right, in almost every other instance! He had once put by the glass, and excused himself on account of his health; but on being laughed at for a sober dog, as they phrased it, and asked, if his spouse had not lectured him before he came out, he gave way to the wretched raillery: nor could I interfere at such a noisy moment with effect: they had laughed him out of his caution before I could be heard; and I left him there at nine o’clock trying with Bagenhall which should drink the deepest.
I wish, my good Dr. Bartlett, you would throw together some serious considerations on this subject. You could touch it delicately, and such a discourse would not be unuseful to some few of our neigh-bours even at Grandison-hall. What is it not, that, in this single article, men sacrifice to false shame and false glory! Reason, health, fortune, personal elegance, the peace and order of their families; and all the comfort and honour of their after-years. How peevish, how wretched, is the decline of a man worn out with intemperance! In a cool hour, reso-lutions might be formed, that should stand the at — tack of a boisterous jest.”
I obtained leave from Dr. Bartlett to transcribe this part of the letter. I thought my uncle would be pleased with it.
It was near ten at night before Sir Charles got to Lord W.‘s, though but three miles from Sir liar-grave’s. My lord rejoiced to see him; and, after first compliments, asked him, if he had thought of what he had undertaken for him. Sir Charles told him, that he was the more desirous of seeing him in his way to the hall, because he wanted to know if his lordship held his mind as to marriage. He as-sured him he did, and would sign and seal to what — ever he should stipulate for him.
I wished for a copy of this part of Sir Charles’s letter, for the sake of my aunt, whose delicacy would, I thought, be charmed with” it. He has been so good as to say, he would transcribe it for me. I will inclose it, Lucy; and you will read it here:
“I cannot, my lord, (said Sir Charles,) engage, that the lady will comply with the proposal I shall take the liberty to make to her mother and her. She is not more than three or four and thirty: she is handsome: she has a fine understanding: she is brought up an ceconomist: she is a woman of good family: she has not, however, though born to happier prospects, a fortune worthy of your lord-ship’s acceptance. Whatever that is, you will per — haps choose to give it to her family.
With all my heart and soul, nephew, But do you say, she is handsome? Do you say, she is of family? And has she so many good qualities? Ah, nephew, she won’t have me, 1 doubt. And is she not too young, Sir Charles, to think of such a poor decrepit soul as I am?
All I can say to this, my lord, is, that the propo-sals on your part must be the more generous
I will leave all those matters to you, kinsman
This, my lord, I will take upon me to answer for, that she is a woman of principle: she will not give your lordship her hand, if she thinks she cannot make you a wife worthy of your utmost kindness: and now, my lord, I will tell you who she is, that you may make what other enquiries you think proper.
And then I named her to him, and gave him pretty near the account of the family, and the cir-cumstances and affairs of it, that I shall by-and-by give you; though you are not quite a stranger to the unhappy case.
My lord was in raptures: he knew something, he said, of the lady’s father, and enough of the family, by hearsay, to confirm all I had said of them; and besought me to do my utmost to bring the affair to a speedy conclusion.
Sir Thomas Mansfield was a very good man; and much respected in his neighbourhood. He was once possessed of a large estate; but his father left him involved in a law-suit to support his title to more than one half of it.
After it had been depending several years, it was at last, to the deep regret of all who knew him, by the chicanery of the lawyers of the opposite side, and the remissness of his own, carried against him; and his expences having been very great in supporting for years his possession, he found himself re — duced from an estate of near three thousand pounds a year, to little more than five hundred. He had six children: four sons, and two daughters. His eldest son died of grief in two months after the loss of the cause. The second, now the eldest, is a me-lancholy man. The third is a cornet of horse. The fourth is unprovided for; but all three are men of worthy minds, and deserve better fortune.
The daughters are remarkable for their piety, pa-tience, good jjeconomy, and prudence. They are the most dutiful of children, and most affectionate of sisters. They were for three years the support of their father’s spirits, and have always been the consolation of their mother. They lost their father about four years ago: and it is even edifying to ob-serve, how elegantly they support the family-repu — tation in their fine old mansion-house, by the pru — dent management of their little income; for the mo — ther leaves every household care to them; and they make it a rule to conclude the year with discharging every demand that can be made upon them, and to commence the new year absolutely clear of the world, and with some cash in hand; yet were brought up in affluence, and to the expectation of handsome fortunes; for, besides that they could have no thought of losing their cause, they had very great and reasonable prospects frem Mr. Calvert, an uncle by their mother’s side; who was rich in money, and had besides an estate in land of 15001. a year. He always declared, that for the sake of his sister’s children he would continue a single man; and kept his word till he was upwards of seventy; when, being very infirm in health, and defective even to dotage in his understanding, Bolton his steward, who had always stood in the way of his inclination to have his eldest niece for his companion and ma-nager, at last contrived to get him married to ayoung creature under twenty, one of the servants in the house, who brought him a child at seven months; and was with child again at the old man’s death, which happened in eighteen months after his mar-riage: and then a will was provided, in which he gave all he had to his wife and her children born, and to be born within a year after his demise. This steward and woman now live together as man and wife.
A worthy clergyman, who hoped it might be in my power to procure them redress, either in the one case or in the other, gave me the above particulars; and upon enquiry, finding every thing to be as re-presented, I made myself acquainted with the widow lady and her sons: and it was impossible to see them at their own house, and not respect the daughters for their amiable qualities.
I desired them, when I was last down, to put into my hands their titles, deeds, and papers; which they have done; and they have been laid before counsel, who give a very hopeful account of them.
Being fully authorized by my lord, I took leave of him over-night, and set out early in the morning, directly for Mansfield-house. I arrived there soon after their breakfast was over, and was received by Lady Mansfield, her sons (who happened to be all at home) and her two daughters, with politeness.
After some general conversation, I took Lady
Mansfield aside; and, making an apology for my freedom, asked her, If Miss Mansfield were, to her knowledge, engaged in her affections?
She answered, she was sure she was not: Ah, Sir, said she, a man of your observation must know, that the daughters of a decayed family of some note in the world, do not easily get husbands. Men of great fortunes look higher: men of small must look out for wives to enlarge them: and men of genteel busi-nesses are afraid of young women better born than portioned. Every-body knows not that my girls can bend to their condition; and they must be contented to live single all their lives; and so they will choose to do, rather than not marry creditably, and with some prospect.
I then opened my mind fully to her. She was agreeably surprised: But who, sir, said she, would expect such a proposal from the next heir to Lord W.?
I made known to her how much in earnest I was in this proposal, as well for my lord’s sake, as for the young lady’s. I will take care, madam, said I, that Miss Mansfield, if she will consent to make Lord W. happy, shall have very handsome settlements, and such an allowance for pin-money, as shall enable her to gratify every moderate, every reasonable wish of her heart.
Was it possible, she asked, for such an affair to be brought about? Would my lord There she stopt.
I said, I would be answerable for him: and desired her to break the matter to her daughter directly.
I left Lady Mansfield, and joined the brothers, who were with their two sisters; and soon after Miss Mansfield was sent for by her mother.
After they had been a little while together, my Lady Mansfield sent to speak with me. They were both silent when I came in. The mother seemed at c2 a loss what to say: the daughter was still more irre-solute.
I addressed myself to the mother. You have, I perceive, madam, acquainted Miss Mansfield with the proposal I made to you. I am fully authorized to make it. Propitious be your silence! There never was, proceeded I, a treaty of marriage set on foot, which had not its conveniences and inconve-niences. My lord is greatly afflicted with the gout: there is too great a disparity in years. These are the inconveniences which are to be considered of for the lady.
On the other hand, if Miss Mansfield can give into the proposal, she will be received by my lord as a blessing; as one whose acceptance of him will lay him under an obligation to her. If this proposal could not have been made with dignity and honour to the lady, it had not come from me.
The conveniences toyourselves will more properly fall under the consideration of yourselves and family. One thing only I will suggest, that an alliance with so rich a man as Lord W. will make perhaps some people tremble, who now think themselves secure.
But, madam (to the still silent daughter), let not a regard for me bias you: your family may be sure of my best services, whether my proposal be received or rejected.
My lord (I must deal sincerely with you) has lived a life of error. He thinks so himself. I am earnest to have him see the difference, and to have an opportunity to rejoice with him upon it.
Istopt: but both being still silent, the mother looking on the daughter, the daughter glancing now — and — then her conscious eye on the mother, If, madam, said I, you can give your hand to Lord W. I will take care, that settlements shall exceed your expectation. What I have observed as well as heard
SIK CHARLES OUANDISON. 17 of Miss Mansfield’s temper and goodness, is the principal motive of my application to her, in prefer-ence to all the women I know.
But permit me to say, that were your affections engaged to the lowest honest man on earth, I would not wish for your favour to Lord W. And further, if, madam, you think you should have but the sha-dow of a hope, to induce your compliance, that my lord’s death would be more agreeable to you than his life, then would I not, for your morality’s sake, wish you to engage. In a word, I address myself to you, Miss Mansfield, as to a woman of honour and conscience: if your conscience bids you doubt, reject the proposal; and this not only for my lord’s sake, but for your own.
Consider, if, without too great a force upon your inclinations, you can behave with that condescension and indulgence to a man who has hastened advanced age upon himself, which I have thought from your temper I might hope.
I have said a great deal, because you, ladies, were silent; and because explicitness in every case becomes the proposer. Give me leave to retire for a lew moments.
I withdrew, accordingly, to the brothers and sister. I did not think I ought to mention to them the proposal I had made. It might perhaps have engaged them all in its favour, as it was of such evident ad-vantage to the whole family; and that might have imposed a difficulty on the lady, that neither for her own sake, nor my lord’s, it would have been just to lay upon her.
Lady Mansfield came out to me, and said, I presume, Sir, as we arc a family which misfortune, as well as love, has closely bound together, you will allow it to be mentioned
To the whole family, madam! Uy all means. F c3 wanted only first to know, whether Miss Mansfield’s affections were disengaged: and now you shall give me leave to attend Miss Mansfield. I am party for my Lord W.: Miss Mansfield is a party: your debates will be the more free in our absence. If I find her averse, believe me, madam, I will not endeavour to persuade her. On the contrary, if she declare against accepting the proposal, I will be her advocate, though every one else should vote in its favour.
The brothers and sister looked upon one another: I left the mother to propose it to them; and stept into the inner parlour to Miss Mansfield.
She was sitting with her back to the door, in a meditating posture. She started at my entrance.
I talked of indifferent subjects, in order to divert her from the important one, that had taken up her whole attention.
It would have been a degree of oppression to her to have entered with her upon a subject of so much consequence to her while we were alone; and when her not having given a negative, was to be taken as a modest affirmative.
Lady Mansfield soon joined us. My dear daugh-ter, said she, we are all unanimous. We have agreed to leave every thing to Sir Charles Grandison: and we hopeyoM wrll.
She was silent. I will only ask you, madam, said I to her, if you have any wish to take time to consider of the matter? Do you think you shall be easier in your mind, if you take time? She was silent.
I will not at this time, my good Miss Mansfield, urge you further. I will make my report to Lord W. and you shall be sure of his joyful approbation of the steps I have taken, before your final consent shall be asked for. But that I may not be employed in a doubtful cause, let me be commissioned to tell my lord, that you are disengaged; and that you wholly resign yourself to your mother’s advice.
She bowed her head.
And that you, madam, to Lady Mansfield, are not averse to enter into treaty upon this important sub-ject.
Averse, Sir! said the mother, bowing, and grate-fully smiling.
I will write the particulars of our conversation to Lord W. and my opinion of settlements, and advise him (if I am not forbid) to make a visit at Mans-field-house [I stopt: they were both silent]. If possible, I will attend my lord in his first visit. I hope, madam, to Miss Mansfield, you will not dislike him: I am sure he will be charmed with you: he is far from being disagreeable in his person: his temper is not bad. Your goodness will make him good. 1 dare say that he will engage your gratitude; and I defy a good mind to separate love from gratitude.
Wereturned to company. I had all their blessings pronounced at once, as from one mouth. The me-lancholy brother was enlivened: Who knows but the consequence of this alliance may illuminate his mind? I could see by the pleasure they all had, in beholding him capable of joy on the occasion, that they hoped it would. The unhappy situation of the family affairs, as it broke the heart of the eldest brother, fixed a gloom on the temper of this gen-tleman.
I was prevailed upon to dine with them. In the conversation we had at and after dinner, their minds opened, and their characters rose upon me. Lord W. will be charmed with Miss Mansfield. I am delighted to think, that my mother’s brother will be happy, in the latter part of his life, with a wife of so much prudence and goodness, as I am sure this lady will make him. On one instance of her very obliging behaviour to me, I whispered her sister, Pray, Miss Fanny, tell Miss Mansfield, but not till I am gone, that she knows not the inconveniences she is bringing upon herself: I may, perhaps, here-after, have the boldness to look for the same favour from my aunt, that 1 meet with from Miss Mans-field.
If my sister, returned she, should ever misbehave to her benefactor, I will deny my relation to her.
You will soon have another letter from me, with an account of the success of my visit to Sir Harry Beauchamp and his lady. We must have our Beau-champ among us, my dear friend: I should rather say, you must among you; for I shall not be long in England. He will supply to you, my dear Dr. Bartlett, the absence (it will not, I hope, be a long one) of your
CHARLES GRANDISON.”
Sir Charles, I remember, as the doctor read, mentions getting leave for his Beauchamp to come over, who, he says, will supply his absence to him But, ah! Lucy! Who, let me have the boldness to ask, shall supply it to your Harriet? Time, my dear, will do nothing for me, except I could hear some-thing very much amiss of this man.
I have a great suspicion, that the first part of the letter inclosed related to me. The doctor looked so earnestly at me, when he skipt two sides of it; and, as I thought, with so much compassion! To be sure, it was about me.
What would I arive to know as much of his mind as Dr. Bartlett knows! If I thought he pitied the poor Harriet I should scorn myself. I am, I will be, above his pity, Lucy. In this believe your
HARRIET BYRON
Letter III.
Miss Byron. In Continuation.
Sunday night, April 2.
Dr. Bartlett has received from Sir Charles an account of what passed last Friday between him, and Sir Harry and Lady Beauchamp: by the doctor’s allowance, 1 inclose it to you
In this letter, Lucy, you will see him in a new light; and as a man whom there is no resisting, when he resolves to carry a point. But it absolutely convinces me, of what indeed I before suspected, that he has not a high opinion of our sex in general: and this I will put down as a blot in his character, He treats us, in Lady Beauchamp, as perverse, hu-moursome babies, loving power, yet not knowing how to use it. See him so delicate in his behaviour and address to Miss Mansfield, and carry in your thoughts his gaity and adroit management to Lady Beauchamp, as in this letter, and you will hardly think him the same man. Could lie be anything to me, I should be more than half-afraid of him: yet this may be said in his behalf; He but accom-modates himself to the persons he has to deal with: he can be a man of gay wit, when he pleases to descend, as indeed his sister Charlotte has as often found, as she has given occasion for the exercise of that talent in him; yet, that virtue, for its own sake, is his choice; since, had he been a free liver, he would have been a dangerous man.
But I will not anticipate too much: read it here, if you please.
Letter IV.
Sir Charles Grandison to Dr. Bartlett. [Inclosed in the preceding. ]
Grandison-hall, Friday night, March 31. I arrived at Sir Harry Beauchamp’s about twelve this day. He and his Lady expected me, from the letter which I wrote and shewed you before I left the town; in which, you know, 1 acquainted Sir Harry with his son’s earnest desire to throw him-self at his feet, and to pay his duty to his mother, in England; and engaged to call myself, either this day or tomorrow, for an answer.
Sir Harry received me with great civility, and even affection. Lady Beauchamp, said he, will be with us in a moment. I am afraid you will not meet with all the civility from her on the errand you are come upon, that a man of Sir Charles Grandison’s character deserves to meet with from all the world. We have been unhappy together, ever since we had your letter. I long to see my son: your friendship for him establishes him in my heart. But And then he cursed the apron-string tenure, by which, he said, he held his peace.
You will allow me, Sir Harry, said I, to address myself in my own way to your lady. You give me pleasure, in letting me know, that the difficulty is not with you. You have indeed, Sir, one of the most prudent young men in the world for your son. His heart is in your hand: you may form it as you please.
She is coming! She is coming! interrupted he. We are all in pieces: we were in the midst of a feud, when you arrived. If she is not civil to you
In swam the lady; her complexion raised; displeasure in her looks to me, and indignation in her air to Sir Harry; as if they had not had their contention out, and she was ready to renew it.
With as obliging an air as I could assume, I paid my compliments to her. She received them with great stiffness; swelling at Sir Harry: who sidled to the door, in a moody and sullen manner, and then slipt out.
You are Sir Charles Grandison, I suppose, Sir, said she: I never saw you before: I have heard much talk of you. But, pray, Sir, are good men always officious men? Cannot they perform the obligations of friendship, without discomposing families?
You see me novo, madam, in an evil moment, if you are displeased with me: but I am not used to the displeasure of ladies: I do my utmost not to deserve it; and, let me tell you, madam, that I will not sufter you to be displeased with me.
I took her half reluctant hand, and led her to a chair, and seated myself in another near her.
I see, Sir, you have your arts.
She took the fire-screen, that hung by the side of the chimney and held it before her face, now glancing at me, now turning away her eye, as if resolved to be displeased.
You come upon a hateful errand, Sir: I have been unhappy ever since your officious letter came.
I am sorry for it, madam. While you are warm with the remembrance of a past misunderstanding, I will not offer to reason with you: but let me, madam, see less discomposure in your looks. I want to take my impressions of you from more placid features: I am a painter, madam: I love to draw ladies pictures. Will you have this pass for a first sitting?
She knew not what to do with her anger: she was loth to part with it.
You are impertinent, Sir Charles Excuse me You are impertinent.
I do excuse you, Lady Beauchamp: and the rather, as I am sure you do not think me so. Your freedom is a mark of your favour; and I thank you for it.
You treat me as a child, Sir
I treat all angry people as children: I love to humour them. Indeed, Lady Beauchamp, you must not be angry with them. Can I be mistaken? Don’t I see in your aspect the woman of sense and reason: I never blame a lady for her humour-someness, so much, as in my mind, I blame her mother.
Sir! said she. I smiled. She bit her lip, to avoid returning a smile.
Her character, my dear friend, is not, you know, that of an ill-tempered woman, though haughty, and a lover of power.
I have heard much of you, Sir Charles Grandison: but I am quite mistaken in you: I expected to see a grave formal young man, nis prim mouth set in plaits: but you are a joker; and a free man; a very free man, 1 do assure you.
I would be thought decently free, madam; but not impertinent. I see with pleasure a returning smile. O that ladies knew how much smiles become their features! Very few causes can justify a woman’s anger Your sex, madam, was given to delight, not to torment us.
Torment you, Sir! Pray, has Sir Harry
Sir Harry cannot look pleased, when his lady is ^-pleased: I saw that you were, madam, the moment I beheld you. I hope I am not an unwelcome visiter to Sir Harry for one hour (I intend to stay no longer) that he received me with so disturbed a countenance, and has now withdrawn himself, as if to avoid me.
To tell you the truth, Sir Harry and I have had a dispute: but he always speaks of Sir Charles Grandison with pleasure.
Is he not offended with me, madam, for the contents of the letter
No, Sir, and I suppose you hardly think he is But I am
Dear madam, let me beg your interest in favour of the contents of it.
She took fire rose up
I besought her patience Why should you wish to keep abroad a young man, who is a credit to his family, and who ought to be, if he is not, the joy of his father! Let him owe to your generosity, madam, that recal, which he solicits: it will become your character: he cannot be always kept abroad; be it your own generous work
What, Sir Pray, Sir With an angry brow
You must not be angry with me, madam (I took her hand) You can’t be angry in earnest
Sir Charles Grandison You are She withdrew her hand; You are, repeated she and seemed ready to call names
I am the Grandison you call me; and I honour the maternal character. You must permit me to honour i/ou, madam. n
I wonder, Sir ——
I will not be denied. The world reports misun-derstandings between you and Mr. Beauchamp. That busy world that will be meddling, knows your power, and his dependence. You must not let it charge you with an ill use of that power: if you do, you will have its blame, when you might have its praise, he will have its pity.
What, Sir, do you think your fine letters, and smooth words, will avail in favour of a young fellow who has treated me with disrespect?
You are misinformed, madam. I am willing to have a greater dependence upon your justice, upon your good-nature, than upon any — thing I can urge either by letter or speech. Don’t let it be said, that you are not to be prevailed on A woman not to be prevailed on to join in an act of justice, of kindness; for the honour of the sex, let it not be said.
Honour of the sex, Sir! Fine talking! Don’t I know, that were I to consent to his coming over, the first thing would be to have his annuity aug-mented out of my fortune? He and his father would be in a party against me. Ami not already a suf-ferer through him in his father’s love? ^You don’t know, Sir, what has passed between Sir Harry and me within this half hour But don’t talk to me: I won’t hear of it: the young man hates me: I hate him: and ever will.
She made a motion to go.
With a respectful air, I told her, she must not leave me. My motive deserved not, I said, that both she and Sir Harry should leave me in displea-sure.
You know but too well, resumed she, bow acceptable your officiousness (I must call it so) is to Sir Harry.
And does Sir Harry, madam, favour his son’s suit?
You rejoice me: let not Mr. Beauchamp know that he does: and do you, my dear Lady Beauchamp, take the whole merit of it to yourself. How will he revere you for your goodness to him! And what an obligation, if, as you say, Sir Harry is inclined to favour him, will you, by your generous first motion, lay upon Sir Harry.
Obligation upon Sir Harry! Yes, Sir Charles Grandison, I have laid too many obligations already upon him, for his gratitude.
Lay this one more. You own you have had a misunderstanding this morning: Sir Harry is with-drawn, 1 suppose, with his heart full: let me, I beseech you, make up the misunderstanding. I have been happy in this way Thus we will order it We will desire him to walk in. I will beg your interest with him in favour of the contents of the letter I sent. His compliance will follow as an act of obligingness to you. The grace of the action will be yours. I will be answerable for Mr. Beauchamp’s gratitude. Dear madam, hesitate not. The young gentleman must come over one day: let the fa-vour of its being an early one, be owing entirely to you.
You are a strange man, Sir: I don’t like you at all: you would persuade me out of my reason.
Let us, madam, as Mr. Beauchamp and I are already the dearest of friends, begin & family under — standing. Let St. James’s Square, and Berkley Square, when you come to town, be a next-door-neighbourhood. Give me the consideration of be ing the bondsman for the duty of Mr. Beauchamp to you, as well as to his father.
She was silent: but looked vexed and irresolute
My sisters, madam, are amiable women. You will be pleased with them. Lord L. is a man worthy of Sir Harry’s acquaintance. We shall want nothing, i) 2 if you would think so, but Mr. Beauchamp’s presence among us.
What! I suppose you design your maiden sister for the young fellow But if you do, Sir, you must ask me for There she stopt.
Indeed I do not. He is not at present disposed to marry. He never will without his father’s ap-probation, and, let me say yours. .My sister is addressed to by Lord G. and I hope will soon be married to him.
And do you say so, Sir Charles Grandison? Why then you are a more disinterested man, than I thought you in this application to Sir Harry. 1 had no doubt but the young fellow was to be brought over to marry Miss Grandison: and that he was to be made worthy of her at my expence.
She enjoyed, as it seemed, by her manner of pronouncing the words young fellow, that designed contempt, which was a tacit confession of the consequence he once was of to her.
I do assure you, madam, that I know not his heart, if he has at present any thoughts of marriage.
She seemed pleased at this assurance.
I repeated my wishes, that she would take to herself the merit of allowing Mr. Beauchamp to return to his native country: and that she would let me see her hand in Sir Harry’s before 1 left them.
And pray, Sir, as to his place of residence, were he to come: Do you think he should live under the same roof with me ?
You shall govern that point, madam, as you ap-prove or disapprove of his behaviour to you.
His behaviour to me, Sir? One house cannot, shall not, hold him and me.
I think, madam, that you should direct in this article. I hope, after a little while, so to order my affairs, as constantly to reside in England. I should think myself very happy, if I could prevail upon Mr. Beauchamp to live with me.
But I must see him, I suppose?
Not, madam, unless you shall think it right, for the sake of the world’s opinion, that you should.
I can’t consent
You can, madam! You do! I cannot allow Lady Beauchamp to be one of those women, who, having insisted upon a wrong point, can be convinced, yet not know how to recede with a grace. Be so kind to yourself, as to let Sir Harry know, that you think it right for Mr. Beauchamp to return; but that it must be upon your own conditions: then, madam, make those conditions generous ones; and how will Sir Harry adore you! How will Mr. Beauchamp revere you! How shall I esteem you!
What a strange impertinent have I before me!
I love to be called names by a lady. If unde-servedly, she lays herself by them under obligation to me, which she cannot be generous, if she resolves not to repay. Shall I endeavour to find out Sir Harry? Or will you, madam?
Was you ever, Sir Charles Grandison, denied by any woman to whom you sued for favour.
I think, madam, I hardly ever was: but it was because I never sued for a favour, that it was not for a lady’s honour to grant. This is the case now; and this makes me determine, that I will not be denied the grant of my present request. Come, come, madam! How can a woman of your lady-ship’s good sense (taking her hand, and leading her to the door) seem to want to be persuaded to do a thing she knows in her heart to be right! Let us find Sir Harry.
Strange man! Unhand me He has used me unkindly
Overcome him then by your generosity. But dear Lady Beauchamp, taking both her hands, and smiling confidently in her face [I could, my dear Dr. Bartlett, do so to Lady Beauchamp] will you make me believe, that a woman of your spirit (you have a charming spirit, Lady Beauchamp) did not give Sir Harry as much reason to complain, as he gave you? I am sure by his disturbed counte-nance
Now, Sir Charles Grandison, you are downright affronting. Unhand me!
This misunderstanding is owing to my officious letter. I should have waited on you in person. I should from the first have put it in your power, to do a graceful and obliging thing. I ask your par-don. I am not used to make differences between man and wife.
I took her hand. She withdrew it not. Tell me, madam, I am forgiven. Your silence is encouraging: now is my friend Beauchamp permitted to return to his native country: now are Sir Harry and his lady reconciled Come, come, madam, it must be so What foolish things are the quarrels of married people! They must come to an agreement again; and the sooner the better; before hard blows are struck, that will leave marks Let us, dear madam, find out Sir Harry
And then with an air of vivacity, that women, whether in courtship or out of it, dislike not, I was leading her once more to the door, and, as I intended, to Sir Harry, wherever he could be found.
Hold, hold, Sir, resisting; but with features far more placid than she had suffered to be before visible If I must be compelled You are a strange man, Sir Charles Grandison If I must be compelled to see Sir Harry But you are a strange man And she rang the bell.
Sin CHARLES GRANDISON. 31
Lady Beauchamp, Dr. Bartlett, is one of those who would be more ready to forgive an innocent freedom, than to be gratified by a profound respect; otherwise I had not treated her with so little cere-mony. Such women are formidable only to those who are afraid of their anger, or who make it a se-rious thing.
But when the servant appeared, she not knowing how to condescend, I said, Go to your master, Sir, and tell him, that your lady requests the favour
Requests the favour! repeated she; but in a low voice: which was no bad sign.
The servant went with a message worded with more civility than perhaps he was used to carry to his master from his lady.
Now, dear Lady Beauchamp, for your own sake; for Sir Harry’s sake; make happy; and be happy: Are there not, dear madam, unhappinesses enow in life, that we must wilfully add to them?
Sir Harry came in sight. He stalked towards us with a parade like that of a young officer wanting to look martial at the head of his company.
Could I have seen him before he entered, my work would have been easier. But his hostile air disposed the lady to renew hostilities.
She turned her face aside, then her person; and the cloudy indignation with which she entered at first, again overspread her features. Ought wrath, Dr. Bartlett, to be so ready to attend a female will? Surely, thought I, my lady’s present airs, after what has passed between her and me, can be only owing to the fear of making a precedent, and being thought too easily persuaded.
Sir Harry, said I, addressing myself to him, I have obtained Lady Beauchamp’s pardon for the officious letter
Pardon, Sir Charles Grandison! You are a good man, and it was kindly intended
He was going on: anger from his eyes flashed upon his cheek-bones, and made them shine. My lady’s eyes struck fire at Sir Harry, and shewed that she was not afraid of him.
Better intended, than done, interrupted I, since my lady tells me, that it was the occasion of a mis-Understanding But, Sir, all will be right: my lady vssures me, that you are not disinclined to comply with the contents; and she has the goodness Pray, Sir Charles, interrupted the lady To give me hopes that she Pray, Sir Charles
Will use her interest to confirm you in your fa-ourable sentiments
Sir Harry cleared up at once May I hope, ma-dam And offered to take her hand.
She withdrew it with an air. O Dr. Bartlett, I must have been thought an unpolite husband, had she been my wife!
I took her hand. Excuse this freedom, Sir Harry For Heaven’s sake, madam, whispering, do what I know you will do, with a grace Shall there be a misunderstanding, and the husband court a refused hand? I then forced her half-unwilling hand into his, with an air that I intended should have both freedom and respect in it.
What a man have we got here, Sir Harry? This cannot be the modest man, that you have praised to me I thought a good man must of necessity be bashful, if not sheepish: and here your visitor is the boldest man in England.
The righteous, Lady Beauchamp, said Sir Harry, with an aspect but half-conceding, is bold as a lion.
And must I be compelled thus, and by such a man, to forgive you, Sir Harry? Indeed you were very unkind.
And you, Lady Beauchamp, were very cruel.
I did not think, Sir, when I laid my fortune at your feet
Lady Beauchamp! You said cutting things! vert/ cutting things!
And did not you, Sir Harry, say, It should be so? So very peremptorily
Not, madam, till you as peremptorily
A little recrimination, thought I, there must be, to keep each in countenance on their past folly.
Ah, Sir Charles! You may rejoice that you are not married, said Sir Harry.
Dear Sir Harry, said I, we must bear with ladies. They are meek good creatures They
Meek! Sir Charles, repeated Sir Harry, with a half-angry smile, and shrugging, as if his shoulder had been hurt with his wife’s meekness I say, meek!
Now, Sir Charles Grandison, said my lady, with an air of threatening
I was desirous either of turning her displeasure into a jest, or of diverting it from the first object, in order to make her play with it, till she had lost it.
Women are of gentle natures, pursued I; and being accustomed to be humoured, opposition sits not easy upon them. Are they not kind to us, Sir Harry, when they allow of our superiority, by expecting us to bear with their pretty perversenesses?
O Sir Charles Grandison! said my lady; both her hands lifted up.
Let us be contented, proceeded I, with such their kind acknowledgments, and in pity to them, and in compliment to ourselves, bear with their foibles. See, madam, I ever was an advocate for the ladies.
Sir Charles, I have no patience with you i What can a poor woman do, ‘continued I, when opposed? She can only be a little violent in ivords, and when she has said as much as she chooses to say, be perhaps a little sullen. For my part, were I so happy as to call a woman mine, and she happened to be in the wrong, I would endeavour to be in the right; and trust to her good sense to recover her temper: arguments only beget arguments. Those reconciliations are the most durable, in which the lady makes the advances.
What doctrine is this, Sir Charles? You are not the man I took you for. I believe, in my conscience, that you are not near so good a man, as the world reports you.
What, madam, because I pretend to know a little of the sex? Surely, Lady Beauchamp, a man of common penetration may see to the bottom of a woman’s heart. A cunning woman cannot hide it: a good woman will not. You are not, madam, such mysteries, as some of us think you. Whenever you know your own minds, ice need not be long doubt-ful: that is all the difficulty: and I will vindicate you, as to that
As how, pray, Sir?
Women, madam, were designed to be dependent, as well as gentle creatures; and of consequence, when left to their own wills, they know not what to resolve upon.
I was hoping, Sir Charles, just now, that you would stay to dinner: but if you talk at this rate, I believe I shall be ready, to wish you out of the house.
Sir Harry looked as if he were half-willing to be diverted at what passed between his lady and me. It was better for me to say what he could not but subscribe to by his feeling, than for him to say it. Though reproof seldom amends a determined spirit, such a one as this lady’s; yet a man who suffers by it, cannot but have some joy when he hears his sen-timents spoken by a bystander. This freedom of mine seemed to save the married pair a good deal of recrimination.
You remind me, madam, that I must be gone; rising, and looking at my watch.
You mustnot leave us, Sir Charles, said Sir Harry.
I beg excuse, Sir Harry Yours, also, madam, smiling Lady Beauchamp must not twice wish me out of the house.
I will not excuse you, Sir, replied she If you have a desire to see the matter completed She stopt You must stay to dinner, be that as it will.
“Be that as it will,” madam! You shall not re-cede.
Recede! I have not yet complied. these women! they are so used to courtship, that they know not how to do right things without it And, pardon me, madam, not always with it.
Bold man Have 1 consented
Have you not, madam, given a ladi/s consent? That we men expect not to be very explicit, very gracious. It is from such now-negative consents, that we men make silence answer all we wish.
I leave Sir Charles Grandison to manage this point, said Sir Harry. In my conscience, I think the common observation just; a stander-by sees more of the game, than he that plays.
It ever will be so, Sir Harry But I will tell you, My lady and I have as good as agreed the matter
I have agreed to nothing, Sir Harry Hush, madam I am doing you credit. Lady Beauchamp speaks aside sometimes, Sir Harry: you are not to hear any-thing she says, that you don’t like.
Then I am afraid I must stop my ears for eight hours out of twelve.
That was aside, Lady Beauchamp You are not to hear that.
To sit, like a fool, and hear myself abused A pretty figure I make! Sir Charles Grandison, let me tell you, that you are the first man that ever treated me like a fool.
Excuse, madam, a little innocent raillery I met you both, with a discomposure on your counte-nances. I was the occasion of it, by the letter I sent to Sir Harry. I will not leave you discom-posed. I think you a woman of sense; and my request is of such a nature, that the granting of it will confirm to me, that you are so But you have granted it
I have not.
That’s charmingly said My lady will not undervalue the compliment she is inclined to make you, Sir Harry. The moment you ask for her compliance, she will not refuse to your affection, what she makes a difficulty to grant to the entreaty of an almost stranger.
Let it, let it be so! Lady Beauchamp, said Sir Harry: and he clasped his arms about her as she sat
There never was such a man as this Sir Charles Grandison in the world! It is a contrivance between you, Sir Harry
Dear Lady Beauchamp, resumed I, depreciate not your compliment to Sir Harry. There wanted not contrivance, I dare to hope (if there did, it had it not) to induce Lady Beauchamp to do a right, a kind, an obliging thing.
Let me, my dearest Lady Beauchamp, said Sir Harry Let me request
At your request, Sir Harry But not at Sir Charles’s.
This is noble, said I. I thank you, madam, for the absent youth. Both husband and son will think themselves favoured by you; and the more, as I am sure, that you will by the cheerful welcome which you will give the young man, shew, that it is a sin-cere compliment that you have made to JSir Harry.
This man has a strange way of flattering one into acts of of what shall I call them? But, Sir Harry, Mr. Beauchamp must not, I believe, live with us
Sir Harry hesitated.
I was afraid of opening the wound. I have a re-quest to make to you both, said I. It is this; That Mr. Beauchamp may be permitted to live with me; and attend you, madam, and his father, as a visiter, at your own command. My sister, I believe, will be very soon married to Lord G.
That is to be certainly so! interrupted the lady.
It is, madam.
But what shall we say, my dear, resumed Sir Harry Don’t fly out again As to the provision for my son? Two hundred a year What is two hun-dred a year
Why then let it be three, answered she.
I have a handsome and improvable estate, said I. I have no demands but those of reason upon mc. I would not offer a plea for his coming to England (and I am sure he would not have come, if I had) without his father’s consent: in which, madam, he hoped for yours. You shall not, sir, allow him either the two or three hundred a year. See him with love, with indulgence (he will deserve both); and think not of any-thing else for my Beauchamp.
There is no bearing this, my dear, said Sir Harry; leaning upon his lady’s shoulder, as he sat, tears in his eyes My son is already, as lhave heard, greatly obliged to this his true friend Do you, do you, madam, answer for me, and for yourself.
She was overcome: yet pride had its share with generosity. You are, said she, the Grandison I have heard of: but I will not be under obligations to you not pecuniary ones, however. No, Sir Harry! Recal your son: I will trust to your love: do for him what you please; let him be independent on this insolent man [she said this with a smile, that made it obliging]; and if we are to be visiters, friends, neighbours, let it be on an equal foot, and let him have nothing to reproach us with.
I was agreeably surprised at this emanation (shall I call it?) of goodness: she is really not a bad woman, but a perverse one: in short, one of those whose passions, when rightly touched, are liable to sudden and surprising turns.
Generous, charming Lady Beauchamp! said I; now are you the woman, whom I have so often heard praised for many good qualities: now will the portrait be a just one!
Sir Harry was in raptures; but had like to have spoiled all, by making me a compliment on the force of example.
Be this, said I, the result Mr. Beauchamp comes over. He will be pleased with whatever you do: at your feet, madam, he shall acknowledge your favour: my home shall be his, if you permit it: on me, he shall confer obligations; from you, he shall receive them. If any considerations of family prudence re-strain you from allowing him at present, what your generosity would wish to do
Lady Beauchamp’s colour was heightened: she interrupted me We are not, Sir Charles, so scanty in our fortune-Well, my dear Lady Beauehamp, be all that as you please: not one retrospect of the past
Yes, Sir Charles, but there shall: his allowance has been lessened for some years; not from consi-derations of family prudence But Well, ’tis all at an end, proceeded she When the young man re-turns, you, Sir Harry, for my sake, and for the sake of thisstrange unaccountable creature, shall pay him the whole arrear.
Now, my dear LadyBeauchamp, said I, lifting her hand to my lips, permit me to give you joy. All doubts and misgivings so triumphantly got over, so solid a foundation laid for family harmony What was the moment of your nuptials to this? Sir Harry, I congratulate you: you may be, and I believe you have been, as happy as most men; but now, you will be still happier.
Indeed, Sir Harry, said she, you provoked me in the morning: I should not else
Sir Harry owned himself to blame; and thus the lady’s pride was set down softly.
She desired Sir Harry to write, before the day concluded, the invitation of return to Mr. Beauchamp; and to do her all the credit in it that she might claim from the last part of the conversation; but not to mention any-thing of the first.
She afterwards abated a little of this right spirit, by saying, I think, Sir Harry, you need not mention any-thing of the arrears, as 1 may call them But only the future 6001. a-year. One would surprise him a little, you know, and be twice thanked
Surprises of such a nature as this, my dear Dr. Bartlett; pecuniary surprises! I don’t love them They are double taxes upon the gratitude of a wor-thy heart. Is it not enough for a generous mind to labour under a sense of obligation? Pride, vain-glory, must be the motive of 6uch narrow-minded benefactors: a truly beneficent spirit cannot take delight in beholding the quivering lip indicating the e2 palpitating heart; in seeing the downcast counte-nance, the up-lifted hands, and working muscles, of a fellow — creature, who, but for unfortunate acci-dents, would perhaps himself have had the will, with the power, of shewing a more graceful benevolence!
I was so much afraid of hearing further abatements of Lady Beauchamp’s goodness; so willing to depart with favourable impressions of her for her own sake; and at the same time so desirous to reach the hall that night; that I got myself excused, though with difficulty, staying to dine; and, accepting of a dish of chocolate, 1 parted with Sir Harry and my lady, both in equal good humour with themselves and me.
Could you have thought, my dear friend, that I should have succeeded so very happily, as 1 have done, in this affair, and at one meeting?
I think that the father and stepmother should have the full merit with our Beauchamp of a turn so unex-pected. Let him not therefore ever see this letter, that he may take his impression of the favour done him, from that which Sir Harry will write to him.
My cousin Gandison, whom I hoped to find here, left the hall on Tuesday last, though he knew of my intention to be down. I am sorry for it. PoorEve-rard! He has been a great while pretty good. I am afraid he will get among his old acquaintance; and then we shall not hear of him for some months per-haps. If you see him in town, try to engage him, till I return. I should be glad of his company to Paris, if his going with me will keep him out of harm’s way, as it is called.
Saturday, April I. I have had compliments sent me by many of my neighbours, who had hoped I was come to reside among them. They professed themselves disappoint-ed on my acquainting them, that 1 must go up early on Monday morning. I have invited myself to their Saturday assembly at the bowling-green-house.
Our reverend friend Mr. Dobson has been so good as to leave with me the sermon he is to preach tomorrow on the opening of the church: it is a very good discourse: I have only exceptions to three or four compliments he makes to the patron in as many different places of it: I doubt not but he will have the goodness to omit them.
I have already looked into all that has been done in the church; and all that is doing in the house and gardens. When both have had the direction and inspection of my dear Dr. Bartlett, need I say, that nothing could have been better? * * Halden is just arrived from my lord, with a letter, which has enabled me to write to Lady Mansfield his lordship’s high approbation of all our proceedings; and that he intends some one early day in next week to pay to her, and Miss Mansfield, his per-sonal compliments.
He has left to me the article of settlements; declaring, that his regard for my future interest is all that he wishes may be attended to.
I have therefore written as from himself, that he proposes a jointure of 12001. a year, penny-rents, and 400 guineas a year, for her private purse; and that his lordship desires, that .Miss Mansfield will make a present to her sister of whatever she may be intitled to in her own right. Something was men — tioned to me at Mansfield-house of a thousand pounds left to her by a godmother.
Halden being very desirous to see his future lady, I shall, at his request, send the letter I have written to Lady Mansfield by him early in the morning; with a line recommending him to the notice of that lady as Lord VV.‘s principal steward.
Adieu, my dear Dr. Bartlett: J have joy in the joy of all these good people. If Providence graciously makes me instrumental to it, I look upon myself but as its instrument. I hope ostentation has no share in what draws on me more thanks and praises than I love to hear.
Lord W. has a right to be made happy by his next relation, if his next relation can make him so. Is he not my mother’s brother? Would not her enlarged soul have rejoiced on the occasion, and blessed her son for an instance of duty to her, paid by his disinterested regard for her brother? Who, my dear Dr. Bartlett, is so happy, yet who, in some cases, so unhappy, as your
CHARLES GRANDISON?
Letter V.
Miss Byron to Miss Selby.
Monday, April 3.
The Countess of D. and the earl, her son, have but just left us. The countess sent last night, to let my cousin Reeves know of their intended morning visit, and they came together. As the visit was made to my cousin, I did not think myself obliged to be in waiting for them below. I was therefore in my closet, comforting myself with my own agreeable re-flections. They were there a quarter of an hour before I was sent to.
Their talk was of me. I am used to recite my own praises, you know; and what signifies making a pa-rade of apologies for continuing the use? I don’t value myself so much as I once did on people’s fa-vourable opinions. If I had a heart in my own keep — ing, I should be glad it was thought a good one; that’s all. Yet though it has littlenesses in it that I knew nothing of formerly, I hope it is not a bad one.
My Lord D. by the whole turn of the partial conversation, was led to expect a very extraordinary young woman. The lady declared, that she would have her talk out, and hear all my two cousins were inclined to say of me, before I was sent up to, as I was not below when they came.
I was therefore to be seen only as a subject of cu-riosity. My lord had declared, it seems, that he would not be denied an introduction to me by his mother. But there were no thoughts of making any application to a girl whose heart was acknowledged not to be her own. My lord’s honour would not allow of such an intention. Nor ought it.
His impatience, however, hastened the message to me. The countess met me half-way, and embraced me: My lovely girl, how do you? My lord, said she, turning to the earl, I need not say This is Miss Byron.
He bowed low, and made me a polite compliment; but it had sense in it, though high, and above my merits. Girls, writing of themselves on these occa-sions, must be disclaimers, you know: but, my dear uncle, what care 1 novo for compliments? The man, from whose mouth only they could be acceptable, is not at liberty to make me any.
The countess engaged me in an easy general conversation; part of which turned upon Lord and Lady L. MissGrandison, and Miss Jervois; and how I had passed my time atColnebrook, in this wintry season, when there were so many diversions in town. But, said she, you had a man with you, who is the general admiration wherever he goes.
Is there no making an acquaintance, said my lord, with Sir Charles Grandison? What I hear said of him, every time he is mentioned in company, is enough to fire a young man with emulation. I should be happy, did 1 deserve to be thought of as a second or third man to Sir Charles Grandison.
I dare say, returned I, your lordship’s acquaint-ance would be highly acceptable to him. He is easy of access. Men of rank, if men of merit, must be of kindred, and recognize one another the moment they meet. But Sir Charles will soon leave England.
The fool sighed: it was, you mav believe, invo-luntarily. I felt myself blush, and was the more silly for that.
The countess took my hand One word with you, my dear and led me out into the next room, and sitting down, made me sit on the same settee with her. that I could call you daughter! began she at once; and turning half round to me, put one arm about me, with the other hand taking one of mine, and earnestly looking in my downcast face.
I was silent. Ah, Lucy! had Lady D. been the mother of Sir Charles Grandison, with what plea-sure could J have listened to her!
You said, my dear, that Sir Charles Grandison will soon leave England: and then you sighed Will you be quite open-hearted? May I askyou a question in hope that you will?
I was silent: Yet the word Yes was on my lips.
You have caused it to be told me, that your affections are engaged. This ht,s been a cruel blow upon us. My lord, nevertheless, has heard so much of you [he is really a good young man, my dear] that (against my advice, I own) he would have me introduce him into your company. I see by his looks, that he could admire you above all women. He never was in love: I should be sorry if he were disappointed in his first love. I hope his promised prudence will be his guard, if there be no prospect of his succeeding with you. She paused I was still silent
It will be a mark of your frankness of heart, my dear, if, when you take my full meaning, you prevent me speaking more than I need. 1 would not oppress you. Such a delicacy, and such a frankness mingled, have I never seen in young woman But tell me, my dear, has Sir Charles Grandison made his addresses to you?
It was a grievous question for me to answer But xuhij was it so, my Lucy, when all the hopes I ever had, proceeded from my own presumption, confirmed (that’s true, of late!) by his sisters partiality in my favour; and when his unhappy Clementina has such a preferable claim?
What says Miss Byron?
She says, madam, that she reveres Lady D. and will answer any questions that she puts to her, how-ever affecting Sir Charles Grandison has not.
Once I thought, proceeded she, that 1 never would make a second motion, were the woman a princess, who had confessed a prior love, or even liking: but the man is Sir Charles Grandison, whom all women must esteem: and the woman is Miss Byron, whom all men must love. Let me ask you, my dear Have you any expectation, that the first of men (I will call him so) and the loveliest and most amiable-minded of women, can be united? You sighed, you know, when you mentioned that Sir Charles was soon to leave England; and you own that he has not made adiiresses to you Don’t be uneasy, my love! We women, in these tender cases, see into each other’s hearts from small openings Look upon me as your mother What say you?
Your ladyship compliments me with delicacy and frankness It is too hard a question, if I have any of the first, to answer without blushes. A. young wo-man to be supposed to have an esteem for a man, who has made no declaration, and whose behaviour to her is such only as shews a politeness to which he is accustomed, and only the same kind of tenderness, as he shews to his sisters; and whom some — times he calls sister as if Ah, madam, how can one answer?
You have answered, my dear, and with that deli-cacy and frankness too, which make a principal part of your character. If my son (and he shall not be encouraged in his hopes, if he sees you not, mind as well as person, with his mother’s eyes) should not be able to check himself by the apprehensions he has had reason for, of being but a second man in the fa-vour of the object of his wishes [xve, my dear, have our delicacies]; could you not allow him a second place in your favour, that might, in time, as he should merit, and as you should subdue your prepossessions, give him a first? Hush my dear, for one moment Your honour, your piety, are my just dependence; and will be his And now speak: it is to me, my dear: speak your whole heart: let not any apprehended difficulty I am a woman as well as you; and prepared to indulge
Your goodness, madam, and nothing else, inter-rupted I, gives me difficulty. My Lord D. seems to me to be a man of merit, and agreeable in his person and manners. What he said of Sir Charles Grandison, and of his emulation being fired by his example, gave him additional merit with me. He must have a good mind. I wish him acquainted with Sir Charles, for his own sake, and for the sake of the world, which might be benefited by his large power, so happily directed! But as to myself, I should for-feit the character of frankness of heart, which your ladyship’s goodness ascribes to me, if I did not declare, that although I cannot, and, I think, ought not, to entertain a hope with regard to Sir Charles Grandison, since there is a lady who deserved him by severe sufferings before I knew him; yet is my heart so wholly attached, that I cannot think it just to give the least encouragement to any other proposal.
You are an excellent young woman: but, my dear, if Sir Charles Grandison is engaged your mind will, it must change. Few women marry their first loves. Your heart
O madam! it is already a wedded heart: it is wedded to his merits; his merits will be always the object of my esteem: I can never think of any other, as I ought to think of the man to whom I give my hand.
Like merits, my dear, as person is not the princi-pal motive, may produce like attachments. My Lord D. will be, in your hands, another Sir Charles Grandison.
How good you are, my dear Lady D.! But allow me to repeat, as the strongest expression I can use, because I mean it to carry all the force that can be given it, that my heart is already a wedded heart.
You have spoken with great force: God bless you, my dear, as I love you! The matter shall take its course. If my lord should happen to be a single man some time hence (and, 1 can tell you, that your excellencies will make our choice difficult); and if your mind, from any accident, or from persuasion of friends, should then have received alteration; you may still be happy in each other. I will therefore only thank you for that openness of heart, which must set free the heart of my son Had you had the least lurking inclination to coquetry, and could have taken pride in conquests, he might have been an undone man. We will return to the company But spare him, my dear: you must not talk much: he will love you, if you do, too fervently for his own peace. Try to be a little awkward I am afraid for him: indeed I am. O that you had never seen Sir Charles Grandison!
I could not answer one word. She took my hand; and led me into the company.
Had I been silent, when my lord directed his discourse to me, or answered only No, or Yes, the countess would have thought me very vain; and that I ascribed to myself the consequence she so generously gave me, with respect to my lord. I therefore behaved and answered unaffectedly; but avoided such a promptness of speech, as would have looked like making pretensions to knowledge and opinion, though some of my lord’s questions were apparently designed to engage me into freedom of discourse. The countess observed me narrowly. She whispered to me, that she did; and made me a very high compliment on my behaviour. How much, Lucy, do I love and reverence her!
My lord was spoken too slightly of, by Miss Grandison, in a former conversation. He is really a fine gentleman. Any woman who is not engaged in her affections, may think herself very happy with him. His conversation was easy and polite, and he said nothing that was low or trifling. Indeed, Lucy, I think Mr. Greville and Mr. Fenwick are more inferior to Lord D. than Lord D. is to Sir Charles Grandison.
At parting, he requested of me to be allowed to repeat his visits.
My lord, said the countess, before I could answer, you must not expect a mere stiff maiden answer from Miss Byron: she is above all vulgar forms. She and her cousins have too much politeness, and, I will venture to say, discernment, not to be glad of your acquaintance, as an acquaintance But, tor the rest, you must look to your heart.
I shall be afraid, said he, turning to the countess, to ask your ladyship for an explanation. Miss By-ron, I hope, Sir, addressing himself to Mr. Reeves, will not refuse me her company, when I pay you my compliments. Then turning to me, I hope, madam, I shall not be punished for admiring you.
My Lord D. replied I, will be entitled to every civility. I had said more, had he not snatched my hand a little too eagerly, and kissed it.
And thus much for the visit of the Countess of D. and the earl.
Did 1 tell you in my former letter, that Emily is with me half her time? She is a most engaging young creature. Her manners are so pure! Her heart is so sincere and open! O Lucy! you would dearly love her. I wish I may be asked to carry her down with me. Yet she adores her guardian: but her re-verence for him will not allow of the innocent fa — miliarity in thinking of him, that — I don’t know what I would say. But to love with an ardour, that would be dangerous to one’s peace, one must have more tenderness than reverence for the ob-ject: Don’t you think so, Lucy?
Miss Grandison made me one of her flying visits, as she calls them, soon after the countess and my lord went away.
Mr. and Mrs. Reeves told her all that had been said before them by the earl and countess, as well before I went down to them, as after. They could not tell what had passed between that lady and me, when she took me aside. I had not had time to tell them. They referred to me for that: but besides that I was not in spirits, and cared not to say much,
I was not willing to be thought, by my refusal of so great an offer, to seem to fasten myself upon her brother.
She pitied (who but must?) Lady Clementina. She pitied her brother also: and seeing me deject-ed, she clasped her arms about me, and wetted my cheek with a sisterly tear.
Is it not strange, Lucy, that Sir Charles’s father should keep him so long abroad? These free-living men! Of what absurdities are they not guilty! What misfortunes to others do they occasion! One might, with the excellent Clementina, ask, What had Mr. Grandison to do in Italy? Or why, if he must go abroad, did he stay so long?
Travelling! Young men travelling! I cannot, my dear, but think it a very nonsensical thing! What can they see, but the ruins of the gay, once busy world, of which they have read?
To see a parcel of giddy boys, under the direction of tutors or governors, hunting after What? No-thing; or at best but ruins of ruins; for the imagi — nation, aided by reflection, must be left, after all, to make out the greater glories, which the grave-digger time has buried too deep for discovery.
And when this grand tour is completed, the tra-velled youth returns: and, what is his boast? Why, to be able to tell, perhaps his <fe//er-taught friend, who has never been out of his native country, that he has seen in ruins, what the other has a juster idea of, from reading; and of which, it is more than probable, he can give a much better account than the traveller.
And are these, petulant Harriet (methinks, Lucy, you demand) all the benefits, that you will suppose Sir Charles Grandison has reaped from his tra-velling?
Why, no. But then, in turn, I ask, is every traveller a Sir Charles Grandison? And does not even he confess to Dr. Bartlett, that he wished he had never seen Italy? And may not the poor Cle-mentina, and all her family, for her sake, wish he never had?
If an opportunity offers, I don’t know but I may ask Sir Charles, Whether, in his conscience, he thinks, that, taking in every consideration, relating to time, expence, risques of life, health, morals, this part of the fashionable education of youth of condit’on is such an indispensable one, as some seem to suppose it? If Sir Charles Grandison give it not in favour of travelling, I believe it will be conclud-ed, that six parts out of eight of the little masters who are sent abroad for improvement, might as well be kept at home; if, especially, they would be or-derly, and let their fathers and mothers know what to do with them.
O my uncle! I am afraid of you: but spare the poor girl. She acknowledges her petulance, her presumption. The occasion you know, and will pity her for it! However, nothing shall make her declare as her sentiments what really are not so, in her unprejudiced hours; and she hopes to have her heart always open to conviction.
For the present, adieu, my Lucy.
P. S. Dr. Bartlett tells me, that Mr. Beau-champ is at Calais, waiting the pleasure of his father; and that Sir Harry has sent express for him, as at his lady’s motion.
Letter VI.
Miss Byron. In Continuation.
Tuesday, April 4.
Sir Charles Grandison came to town last night. He was so polite, as to send to enquire after my health; and to let Mr. Reeve6 know, that he would do himself the honour, as he called it, of break-fasting with him this morning. Very ceremonious either for his own sake or for mine Perhaps for both.
So I am in expectation of seeing within this half-hour, the noble Clementina’s future Ah Lucy?
The compliment, you see, is to Mr.Reeves Shall I stay above, and see if he will ask for me? He owes me something for the emotion he gave me in Lord L.‘s library. Very little of him since have I seen.
“Honour forbids me, said he, then: yet honour bids me. But I cannot be ungenerous, selfish” These words are still in my ear. What could he mean by them? Honour forbids me What! to explain himself? He had been telling me a tender tale: he had ended it. What did honour forbid him to do? Yet honour bids me! Why then did he not follow the dictates of honour?
But I cannot be unjust: To Clementina he means. Who wished \i\m to be so? Unjust! I hope not. It is a diminution to your glory, Sir Charles Grandi-son, to have the word unjust, in this way of speak — ing, in your thoughts! As if a good man had laid under a temptation to be unjust; and had but then recollected himself.
“I cannot be ungenerous.” To the noble lady, I suppose? He must take compassion on her. And did
StR CHARLES GRANDISON. 53 he think himself under an obligation to my forwardness to make this declaration to me, as to one who wished him to be ungenerous to such a lady for my sake! I cannot bear the thought of this. Is it not as if he had said, “ Fond Harriet, I see what you expect from me But I must have compassion for, I cannot be ungenerous to, Clementina?” But, what a poor word is compassion! Noble Clementina, I grieve for you, though the man be indeed a gene-rous man! O defend me, my better genius, from Wanting the compassion even of a Sir Charles Grandison!
But what means he by the word selfish! He can-not he selfish! I comprehend not the meaning of this word Clementina has a very high fortune Harriet but a very middling one. He cannot be unjust, ungenerous to Clementina Nor yet selfish This word confounds me, from a man that says no-thing at random!
Well, but breakfast-time is come, while I am busy in self-debatings. I will go down, that I may not seem to affect parade. I will endeavour to see with indifference, him that we have all been admiring and studying for this last fortnight, in such a variety of lights The christian: the hero: the friend: Ah. Lucy! The lover of Clementina: the generous nephew of Lord W.: the modest and delicate benefactor of the Mansfields: the free, gay, raillier of Lady Beauchamp; and in her of all our sex’s foibles!
But he is come! While I am prating to you with my pen, he is come Why, Lucy, would you detain me? Now must the fool go down in a kind of hurry: yet stay till she is sent for. And that is notv. f .S
Letter VII.
Miss Byron. In Continuation.
O Lucy, I have such a conversation to relate to you! But let me lead to it.
Sir Charles met me at the opening of the door. He was all himself Such an unaffected modesty and politeness; yet such an ease and freedom!
I thought by his address, that he would have taken my hand; and both hands were so emulatively passive How does he manage it to be so free in a first address, yet so respectful that a princess could not blame him?
After breakfast, my cousins being sent for out to attend Sir John Allestree and his niece, Sir Charles and I were left alone: and then, with an air equally solemn and free, he addressed himself to me.
The last time I had the honour of being alone with my good Miss Byron, I told her a very tender tale. I was sure it would raise in such a heart as hers generous compassion for the noblest lady on the continent; and I presumed, as my difficulties were not owing either to rashness or indiscretion, that she would also pity the relater.
The story did indeed affect you; yet, for my own sake, as well as yours, I referred you to Dr. Bart-lett, for the particulars of some parts of it, upon which I could not expatiate.
The doctor, madam, has let me know the parti-culars which he communicated to you. I remember with pain the pain I gave to your generous heart in Lord L.‘s study. I am sure you must have suffered still more from the same compassionate goodness on the communications he made you. May I, madam, however, add a few particulars to the same subject, which he then could not give you? Now you have been let into so considerable a part of my story, I am desirous to acquaint you, and that rather than any woman in the world, with all that I know my-self of this arduous affair.
He ceased speaking. I was in tremors. Sir, Sir The story, I must own, is a most affecting one. How much is the unhappy lady to be pitied! You will do me honour in acquainting me with further particulars of it.
Dr. Bartletthas told you, madam, that the Bishop of Nocera, second brother to Lady Clementina, has very lately written to me, requesting that I will make one more visit to Bologna I have the letter. You read Italian, madam. Shall I Or will you He held it to me.
I took it. These, Lucy, are the contents.
‘ The bishop acquaints him with the very melan-choly way they are in. The father and mother de clining in their healths. Signor Jeronymo worse than when Sir Charles left them. His sister also declining in her health: yet earnest still to see him.
‘ He says, that she is at present at Urbino; but is soon to go to Naples to the general’s. He urges him to make them one visit more; yet owns, that his family are not unanimous in the request: but that he and Father Marescotti, and the marchioness, are extremely earnest that this indulgence should be granted to the wishes of his sister.
‘ He offers to meet him, at his own appointment, and conduct him to Bologna; where, he tells him, his presence will rejoice every heart, and procure an unanimous consent to the interview so much desired: and says, that if this measure, which he is sorry he has so long withstood, answers not his hopes, he will advise the shutting up of their Cle-mentina in a nunnery, or to consign her to private hands where she shall be treated kindly, but as per* sons in her unhappy circumstances are accustomed to be treated.’
Sir Charles then shewed me a letter from Signor Jeronymo; in which he acquaints him with the dangerous way he is in. He tells him, ‘ That his life is a burden to him. He wishes it was brought to its period. He does not think himself in skilful hands. He complains most of the wound which is in his hip-joint; and which has hitherto baffled the art both of the Italian and French surgeons who have been consulted. He wishes, that himself and Sir Charles had been of one country, since the greatest felicity he now has to wish for, is to yield up his life to the Giver of it, in the arms of his Grandison.’
He mentions not one word in this melancholy letter of his unhappy sister: which Sir Charles ac-counted for, by supposing, that she not being at Bologna, they kept from him, in his deplorable way* every thing relating to her, that was likely to disturb him.
He then read part of a letter written in English, by the admired Mrs. Beaumont; some of the contents of which were, as you shall hear, extremely affecting:
‘ Mrs. Beaumont gives him in it an account of the situation of the unhappy young lady; and excuses herself for not having done it before, in answer to his request, because of an indisposition under Which she had for some time laboured, which had hindered her from making the necessary inquiries.
‘ She mentions, that the lady had received no benefit from her journeyings from place to place; and from her voyage from Leghorn to Naples, and back again; and blames her attendants, who, to quiet her, unknown to their principals, for some time, kept her in expectation of seeing her che-valier, at the end of each; for her more prudent Camilla, she says, had been hindered by illness from attending her, in several of the excursions.
‘ They had a second time, at her own request, put her into a nunnery. She at first was so sedate in it as gave them hopes: but the novelty going off, and one of the sisters, to try her, having officiously asked her to go with her into the parlour, where she said, she would be allowed to converse through the grate with a certain English gentleman, her impa-tience, on her disappointment, made her more un governable than they had ever known her; for she had been, for two hours before, meditating what she would say to him.
‘ For a week together, she was vehemently intent upon being allowed to visit England; and had engaged her cousins Sebastiano and Juliano to promise to escort her thither, if she could obtain leave.
Her mother brought her off this when nobody else could, only by entreating her, for her sake, never to think of it more.
‘ The marchioness then, encouraged by this instance of her obedience, took her under her own care: but the young lady going on from flight to flight; and the way she was in visibly affecting the health of her indulgent mother; a doctor was found who was absolutely of opinion, that nothing but harsh methods would avail: and in this advice Lady Sforza, and her daughter Laurana, and the general concurring, she was told, that she must prepare to go to Milan. She was so earnest to be excused from going thither, and to be permitted to go to Florence to Mrs. Beaumont, that they gave way to her entreaties; and the marquis himself, accompanying her to Florence, prevailed on?*lrs. Beaumont to take her under her care.
‘ With her she staid three weeks: she was toler-ably sedate in that space of time; but most so, when she was talking of England, and of the Chevalier Grandison, and his sisters, with whom she wished to be acquainted. She delighted to speak English, and to talk of the tenderness and goodness of her tutor; and of what he said to her, upon such and such a subject.
‘ At the three weeks end, the general made her a visit, in company of Lady Sforza; and her talk being all on this subject, they were both highly displeased; and hinted, that she was too much indulged in it; and, unhappily, she repeating some tender passages that passed in the interview her mother had permitted her to hold with the cheva-lier, the general would have it, that Mr. Grandison had designedly, from the first, sought to give him-self consequence with her; and expressed himself, on the occasion, with great violence against him.
* He carried his displeasure to extremity, and obliged her to go away with his aunt and him that very day, to her great regret; and as much to the regret of Mrs. Beaumont, and of the ladies her friends; who tenderly loved the innocent visionary, as sometimes they called her. And Mrs. Beaumont is sure, that the gentle treatment she met with from time, would in time, though perhaps slowly, have greatly assisted her.’
Mrs. Beaumont then gives an account of the harsh treatment the poor young lady met with.
Sir Charles Grandison would have stopt reading here. He said, he could not read it to me, without such a change of voice, as would add to my pain, as well as to his own.
Tears often stole down my cheeks, when I read the letters of the bishop and Signor Jeronymo, and as Sir Charles read a part of Mrs. Beaumont’s letter: and I doubted not but what was to follow would make them flow. Yet, I said, Be pleased, Sir, to let me read on. I am not a stranger to distress. I can pity others, or I should not deserve pity myself.
He pointed to the place; and withdrew to the window.
Mrs. Beaumont says, ‘ That the poor mother was prevailed upon to resign her child wholly to the management of Lady Sforza, and her daughter Laurana, who took her with them to their palace in Milan.
‘ The tender parent, however, besought them to spare all unnecessary severity; which they promised: but Laurana objected to Camilla’s attend — ance. She was thought too indulgent; and her servant Laura, as a more manageable person, was taken in her place.’ And O how cruelly, as you shall hear, did they treat her!
Father Marescotti, being obliged to visit a dying relation at Milan, was desired by the marchioness to inform himself of the way her beloved daughter was in, and of the methods taken with her, Lady Laurana having in her letters boasted of both. The good father acquainted Mrs. Beaumont with the following particulars:
‘ He was surprised to find a difficulty made of his seeing the lady: but insisting on it, he found her to be wholly spiritless, and in terror; afraid to speak, afraid to look, before her cousin Laurana; yet seeming to want to complain to him. He took notice of this to Laurana O father, said she, we are in the right way, I assure you: when we had her first, her chevalier, and an interview with him, were ever in her mouth; but now she is in such order, that she never speaks a word of him. But what, asked the compassionate father, must she have sutfered, to be brought to this? Don’t you, father, trouble yourself about that, replied the cruel Laurana: the doctors have given their opinion, that some severity was necessary. It is all for her good.
‘ The poor lady expressed herself to him, with earnestness, after the veil; a subject on which, it seems, they indulged her; urging, that the only way to secure her health of mind, if it could be re-stored, was to yield to her wishes. Lady Sforza said, that it was not a point that she herself would press; but it was her opinion, that her family sin-ned in opposing a divine dedication; and, perhaps, their daughter’s malady might be a judgment upon them, for it.’
‘ The father, in his letter to Mrs. Beaumont, ascribes to Lady Sforza self-interested motives for her conduct; to Laurana, envy on account of Lady Clementina’s superior qualities: but nobody, he says, till now, doubted Laurana’s love of her.’
Father Marescotti then gives a shocking instance of the barbarous Laurana’s treatment of the noble sufferer All for her good Wretch! how my heart rises against her! Her servant Laura, under pretence of confessing to her Bologna father, in tears, acquainted him with it. It was perpetrated but the day before.
‘ When any severity was to be exercised upon the unhappy lady, Laura was always shut out of her apartment. Her lady had said something that she was to be chidden for. Lady Sforza, who was not altogether so severe as her daughter, was not at home. Laura listened in tears: she heard Laurana in great wrath with Lady Clementina, and threaten her and her young lady break out to this effect
What have I done to you,, Laurana, to-be so used? You are not the cousin Laurana you used to be? You know I am not able to help myself? Why do you call me crazy, and frantic, Laurana? [Vile upbraider, Lucy!] If the Almighty has laid his hand upon me, should I not be pitied?
‘ It is all for your good! It is all for your good, Clementina! You could not always have spoken so sensibly, cousin.
‘ Cruel Laurana! You loved me once! I have no mother, as you have. My mother was a good mother: but she is gone! Or I am gone, I know not which.
‘ She threatened her then with the strait waist-coat, a punishment at which the unhappy lady was always greatly terrified. Laura heard her beg and pray; but, Laurana coming out, she was forced to retire.
‘ The poor young lady apprehending her cruel cousin’s return with the threatened waistcoat, and with the woman that used to be brought in when they were disposed to terrify her, went down and hid herself under a stair-case, where she was soon discovered by her clothes, which she had not been careful to draw in after her.’
O Lucy! how I wept! How insupportable to me, said Sir Charles, would have been my reflections, had my conscience told me, that I had been the wilful cause of the noble Clementina’s calamity!
After I had a little recovered, I read to myself the next paragraph, which related, ‘ that the cruel Lau-rana dragged the sweet sufferer by her gown, from her hiding-place, inveighing against her, threatening her: she, all patience, resigned, her hands crossed on her bosom, praying for mercy, not by speech, but by her eyes, which, however, wept not: and causing her to be carried up lo her chamber, there punished her with the strait waistcoat, as she had threatened.
‘ Father Marescotti was greatly affected with Laura’s relation, as well as with what he had himself observed: but on his return to Bologna, dreading to acquaint her mother, for her own sake, with the treatment her Clementina met with, he only said, he did not quite approve of it; and advised her not to oppose the young lady’s being brought home, if the bishop and the general came into it: but he laid the whole matter before the bishop, who wrote to the general to join with him immediately, to re-lease their sister from her present bondage: and the general meeting the bishop on a set day at Milan, for that purpose, the lady was accordingly released.
‘ A breach ensued upon it, with Lady Sforza and her daughter; who would have it, that Clementina was much better for their management. They had by terror broken her spirit, and her passiveness was reckoned upon as an indication of amendment.
‘ The marchioness being much indisposed, the young lady, attended by her Camilla, was carried to Naples; where it is supposed she now is. Poor young lady, how has she been hurried about! But who can think of her cousin Laurana without extreme indignation?
‘ Mrs. Beaumont writes, that the bishop would fain have prevailed upon his brother the general to join with him in an invitation to Sir Charles Grandison to come over, as a last expedient, before they locked her up either in a nunnery, or in some pri-vate house; but the general would by no means come into it.
‘ He asked, What was proposed to be the end of Sir Charles’s visit, were all that was wished from it to follow, in his sister’s restored mind? He never, he said, would give his consent that she should be the wife of an English protestant.
‘ The bishop declared, that he was far from wishing her to be so: but he was for leaving that to after considerations. Could they but restore his sister to her reason, that reason, cooperating with her principles, might answer all their hopes.
‘ He might try his expedient, the general said, with all his heart, but he looked upon the Chevalier Grandison to be a man of art; and he was sure he must have entangled his sister by methods imper-ceptible to her, and to them; but yet more effica — cious to his ends, than an open declaration. Had he not, he asked, found means to fascinate Olivia, and as many women as he came into company with? For his part he loved not the chevalier. He had forced him by his intrepidity to be civil to him: but forced civility was but temporary. It was his way to judge of causes by the effects: and this he knew, that he had lost a sister who would have been a jewel in the crown of a prince: and would not be answerable for consequences, if he and Sir Charles Grandison were once more to meet, be it where it would.
Father Marescotti, however, joining, a6 the bishop writes, with him, and the marchioness, in a desire to try this expedient; and being sure that the marquis and Signor Jeronymo would not be averse to it, he took a resolution to write over to him, as has been related.’
This, Lucy, is the state of the unhappy case, as briefly and as clearly as my memory will serve to give it. And what a rememberer, if 1 may make a word, is the heart! Not a circumstance escapes it.
And now it remained for me to know of Sir Charles what answer he had returned, o 2
Was not my situation critical, my dear? Had Sir Charles asked my opinion, before he had taken the resolutions, I should have given it with my whole heart, that he should fly to the comfort of the poor lady. But then he would have shewn a suspense unworthy of Clementina; and a compliment to me, which a good man, so circumstanced, ought not to make.
My regard for him (yet what a poor affected word is regard!) was nevertheless as strong as ever. Ge-nerosity, or rather justice, to Clementina, and that so often, to you, avowed regard to him, pulled my heart two ways. I thought I wanted to consider with myself for a few moments, being desirous to clear to my own heart the conduct that I was to shew on this trying occasion, as well of precipitation as of affectation; and my cousin Reeves just then coming in for something she wanted, I took the opportunity to walk to the upper end of the room: and while a short complimental discourse passed between them, “ Harriet Byron, said I to myself, be not mean. Hast thou not the example of a Cle-mentina before thee? Her religion and her love, combating together, have overturned the noble creature’s reason. Thou canst not be called to such a trial: but canst thou not shew, that if thou ivert, thou couldst have acted greatly, if not so greatly? Sir Charles Grandison is just: he ought to prefer to thee the excellent Clementina. Priority of claim, compassion, for the noble sufferer, merits so superior! I love him for his merits: shall I not love merits, nearly as great in one of my own sex? The strug-gle will cost thee something: but try to be above thyself. Banished to thy retirement, to thy pillow, thought I, be all the girl. Often have I contended for the dignity of my sex; let me now be an exam-ple to myself, and not unworthy in my own eyes
SIH CHAKLES GRAttDISON. 65
(when 1 come to reflect) of an union, could it have been effected, with a man whom a Clementina look-ed up to with hope.”
My cousin being withdrawn, and Sir Charles ap-proaching me, I attempted to assume a dignity of aspect, without pride; and I spoke, while spirit was high in me, and to keep myself up to it My heart bleeds, Sir, for the distress of your Clementina [Yes, Lucy, I said, your Clementina]: beyond expression, 1 admire the greatness of her character; and most sincerely lament her distresses. What, that is in the power of man, cannot Sir Charles Grandison do? You have honoured me, Sir, with the title of sister: in the tenderness of that relation, permit me to say, that I dread the effects of the general’s violence: I feel next for you the pain that it must give to your humane heart to be once more personally present to the woes of the inimitable Clementina: but I am sure you did not hesitate a moment about leaving all your friends here in Eng-land, and resolving to hasten over to try, at least, what can be done for the noble sufferer.
Had he praised me highly for this my address to him, it would have looked, such was the situation on both sides, as if he had thought this disinterested behaviour in me, an extraordinary piece of magna-nimity and self-denial; and, of consequence, as if he had supposed I had views upon him, which he won-dered I could give up. His is the most delicate of human minds.
He led me to my seat, and taking his by me, still holding my passive hand Ever since I have had the honour of Miss Byron’s acquaintance, 1 have considered her as one of the most excellent of women. My heart demands alliance with hers; and hopes to be allowed its claim, though such are the delica-cies of situation, that I scarcely dare to trust myself o 8 to speak upon the subject. From the first, I called Miss Byron my sister; but she is more to me than the dearest sister; and there is a more tender friendship that I aspire to hold with her, whatever may be the accidents on either side, to bar a fur-ther wish: and this I must hope, that she will not deny me, so long as it shall be consistent with her other attachments.
He paused. I made an effort to speak: but speech was denied me. My face, as I felt, glowed like the fire before me.
My heart, resumed he, is ever on my lips. It is tortured when I cannot speak all that is in it. Pro-fessions I am not accustomed to make. As I am not conscious of being unworthy of your friendship, I will suppose it; and further talk to you of my affairs and engagements, as that tender friendship may warrant.
Sir, you do me honour, was all I could say.
I had a letter from the faithful Camilla. I hold not acorrespondencewithher: but the treatment thather young lady met with, of which she had got some ge-neral intimations, and some words that the bishop said to her, which expressed his wishes that I would make them one more visit at Bologna, urged her to write, begging of me, for Heaven’s sake, to go over. But unless one of the family had written to me, and by consent of others of it, what hope had I of a welcome, after I had been as often refused, as I had requested while I was in Italy, to be admitted to the presence of the lady, who was so desirous of one interview more? Especially, as Mrs. Beau-mont gave me no encouragement to go, but the contrary, from what she observed of the inclinations of the family.
Mrs. Beaumont is still of opinion, as in the conclusion of the letter before you, that I should not go, unless the general and the marquis join their re-quests to those of the marchioness, the bishop, and Father Marescotti. But I had no sooner perused the bishop’s letter, than I wrote, that I would most cheerfully comply with his wishes: but that I should be glad that I might not be under any obligation to go further than Bologna; where 1 might have the happiness to attend my Jeronymo, as well as his sister.
I had a little twitch at my heart, Lucy. I was sorry for it; but my judgment was entirely with him.
And now, madam, you will wonder, that you see not any preparations for my departure. All is prepared: I only wait for the company of one gentle — man, who is settling his affairs with all expedition to go with me. He is an able, a skilful surgeon, who has had great practice abroad, and in the armies: and having acquired an easy fortune, is come to settle in his native country. My Jeronymo expresses himself dissatisfied with his surgeons. If Mr. Lowther can be of service to him, how happy shall I think myself! And if my presence can be a means to restore the noble Clementina But how dare I hope it? And yet I am persuaded, that in her case, and with such a temper of mind (unused to hardship and opposition as she had been) the only way to recover her, would have been by complying with her in every thing that her heart or head was earnestly set upon: for what controul was necessary to a young lady, who never, even in the height of her malady, uttered a wish or thought that was contrary to her duty either to God, or her pa-rents; nor yet to the honour of her name, and, allow me, madam, to say, to the pride of her sex?
I am under an obligation to go to Paris, proceeded he, from the will of my late friend Mr. Danby. I shall stop there for a day or two only, in order to put things in a way for my last hand, on my return from Italy.
When I am in Italy, I shall perhaps be enabled to adjust two or three accounts that stand out, in relation to the affairs of my ward.
This day at dinner I shall see Mrs. Oldham, and her sons; and in the afternoon, at tea, Mrs. O’Hara, and her husband, and Captain Salmonet.
To-morrow, I hope for the honour of your company, madam, and Mr. and Mrs. Reeves’s, at dinner; and be so good as to engage them, for the rest of the day. You must not deny me; because I shall want your influence upon Charlotte, to make her fix Lord G.‘s happy day, that I may be able to see their hands united before I set out: as my return will be uncer-tain
Ah, Lucy! more twitches just then!
Thursday next is the day fixed for the triple mar-riage of the Danbys. I have promised to give Miss Danby to Mr. Galliard, and to dine with them and their friends at Enfield.
If I can see my Lord W. and Charlotte happy before 1 go, I shall be highly gratified.
It is another of my wishes, to see my friend Beauchamp in England first, and to leave him in possession of his father’s love, and of his mother-inlaw’s civility. Dr. Bartlett and he will be happy in each other. I shall correspond with the doctor. He greatly admires you, madam, and will commu-nicate to you all you shall think worthy of your notice, relating to the proceedings of a man who will always think himself honoured by your enquiries after him.
Ah, Lucy \ Sir Charles Grandison then sighed. He seemed to look more than he spoke. I will not promise for my heart, if he treats me with more than the tenderness of friendship: if he gives me room to think that he wishes But what can he wish? He ought to be, he must be, Clementina’s: and I will endeavour to make myself happy, if I can maintain the second place in his friendship: and when he offers me this, shall I, Lucy, be so little as to be displeased with the man, who cannot be to me all that I had once hoped he could be? No! he shall be the same glorious creature in my eyes; I will admire his goodness of heart, and greatness of mind; and I will think him intitled to my utmost gratitude for the protection he gave me from a man of violence, and for the kindness he has already shown me. Is not friendship the basis of my love? And does he not tender me that?
Nevertheless, at the time, do what I could, I found a tear ready to start. My heart was very untoward, Lucy; and I was guilty of a little female turn. When 1 found the twinkling of my eyes would not disperse the too ready drop, and felt it stealing down my cheek, I wiped it off The poor Emily, said I She will be grieved at parting with you. Emily loves her guardian.
And I love my ward. I once had a thought, ma-dam, of begging your protection of Emily: but as I have two sisters, I think she will be happy under their wings, and in the protection of my good Lord L. and the rather, as I have no doubt of overcoming her unhappy mother, by making her husband’s interest a guaranty, for her tolerable, if not good, be haviour to her child.
I was glad to carry my thoughts out of myself, as I may say, and from my own concerns. We all, Sir, said I, look upon Mr. Beauchamp as a future
Husband for Emily, madam? interrupted he It must not be at my motion. My friend shall be intitled to share with me my whole estate; but I will never seek to lead the choice of my ward. Let Emily, some time hence, find out the husband she can be happy with; Beauchamp the wife he can love; Emily, if I can help it, shall not be the wife of any man’s convenience. Beauchamp is nice, and I will be as nice for my ward. And the more so, as I hope she herself wants not delicacy. There is a cruelty in persuasion, where the heart rejects the person proposed, whether the urger be parent or guardian.
Lord bless me, thought!, what a man is this! Do you expect Mr. Beauchamp soon, Sir? Every day, madam.
And is it possible, Sir, that you can bring all these things to bear before you leave England, and go so soon?
I fear nothing but Charlotte’s whimsies: Have you, madam, any reason to apprehend that she is averse to an alliance with Lord G.? His father and aunt are very importunate for an early cele-bration.
None at all, Sir.
Then I shall depend much upon yours, and Lord and Lady L.‘s influence over her.
He besought my excuse for detaining my attention so long. Upon his motion to go, my two cou — sins came in. He took even a solemn leave of me, and a very respectful one of them.
I had kept up my spirits to their utmost stretch: I desired my cousins to excuse me for a few minutes: his departure from me was too solemn; and I hurried up to my closet; and after a few involuntary sobs, a flood of tears relieved me. I besought, on my knees, peace to the disturbed mind of the excellent Cle-mentina, calmness and resignation to my own, and safety to Sir Charles. And then, drying my eyes at the glass, I went down stairs to my cousins; and on
SIK CHARLES GRANDISON. 71 their enquiries (with looks of deep concern) after the occasion of my red eyes, I said, All is over! All is over! my dear cousins. I cannot blame him: he is all that is noble and good I can say no more just now. The particulars you shall have from my pen.
I went up stairs to write: and except for one half hour at dinner, and another at tea, 1 stopt not till I had done.
And here, quite tired, uneasy, vexed with myself, yet hardly knowing why, I lay down my pen. Take what 1 have written, my dear cousin Reeves: if you can read it, do: and then dispatch it to my Lucy.
But, on second thoughts, 1 will shew it to the two ladies, and Lord L. before it is sent away. They will be curious to know what passed in a conversation, where the critical circumstances both of us were in, required a delicacy which I am not sure was so well observed on my side, as on his.
I shall, I know, have their pity; but let nobody who pities not the noble Clementina, shew any for
HARRIET BYRON.
Letter VIII.
Miss Byron. In Continuation.
Tuesday night, April 4. Miss Grandison came to me just as we had sup-ped. She longed, she said, to see me; but was pre vented coining before, and desired to know what had passed between her brother and me this morning, I gave her the letter, which I had but a little while before concluded. lie had owned, she said, that he had breakfasted with me; and spoke of me to her, and Lord and Lady L. with an ardour that gave them pleasure. She put my letter into her bosom. I may, I hope, Harriet If you please, madam, said I.
If you please, madam, repeated she; and with that do-lo-rous accent too, my Harriet! My sister and I have been in tears this morning: Lord L. had much ado to forbear. Sir Charles will soon leave us.
It can’t be helped, Charlotte. Did you dine today in St. James’s Square?
No, indeed! my brother had a certain tribe with him; and the woman also. It is very difficult, I believe, Harriet, for good people to forbear doing sometimes more than goodness requires of them.
Could you not, Charlotte, have sat at table with them for one hour or two?
My brother did not ask me. He did not expect it. He gives every-body their choice, you know. He told me last night who were to dine with him today, and supposed I would choose to dine with Lady L. or with you. he was so free as to say.
He did us an honour, which you thought too great a one. But if he had asked you, Charlotte
Then I should have bridled. Indeed, I asked him, If he did not over-do it.
What was his answer?
Perhaps he might But I, said he, may never see Mrs. Oldham again. I want to inform myself of her future intentions, with a view {over-do it again, Charlotte!) to make her easy and happy for life. Her children are in the world. I want to give her a credit that will make her remembered by them, as they grow up, with duty. I hope I am superior to forms. She is conscious. I can pity her. She is a gentlewoman; and intitled to a place at any man’s table to whom she never was a servant. She never was mine.
And what, Miss Grandison, could you say in answer? asked I.
What! Why I put up my lip.
Ungracious girl!
I can’t help it. That may become a man to do in such cases as this, that would not a woman.
Sir Charles wants not delicacy, my dear, said I.
He must suppose, that I should have sat swelling, and been reserved: he was right not to ask me So be quiet, Harriet And yet, perhaps, you would be as tame to a husband’s mistress, as you seem fa-vourable to a father’s.
She then put on one of her arch looks
The cases differ, Charlotte But do you know what passed between the generous man, and the mortified woman and her children; mortified as they must be by his goodness?
Yes, yes; 1 had curiosity enough to ask Dr. Bart-lett about it all.
Pray, Charlotte
Ur. Bartlett is favourable to every body, sinners as well as saints He began with praising the mo-desty of her dress, the humility of her behaviour: he said, that she trembled and looked down, till she was re-assured by Sir Charles. Such creatures have all their tricks, Harriet.
You, Charlotte, are not favourable to sinners, and hardly to saints. But pray proceed.
Why, he re-assured the woman, as I told you: and then proceeded to ask many questions of the elder Oldham I pitied that young fellow to have a mother in his eye, whose very tenderness to the young ones kept alive the sense of her guilt. And yet what would she have been, had she not been doubly tender to the innocents, who were born to shame from her fault? Theyoungmanacknowledged a military genius, and Sir Charles told him, that he would, on his return from a journey he was going to take, consider whether he could not do him ser-vice in the way he choose. He gave him, it seems, a brief lecture on what he should aim to be, and what avoid, to qualify himself for a man of true ho-nour; and spoke very handsomely of such gentlemen of the army as are real gentlemen. The young fellow, continued Miss Grandison, may look upon himself to be as good as provided for, since my bro-ther never gives the most distant hope that is not followed by absolute certainty, the first opportunity, not that offers, but which he can make.
He took great notice of the little boys. He di-lated their hearts, and set them a prating; and was pleased with their prate. The doctor, who had never seen him before in the company of children, applauded him for his vivacity, and condescending talk to them. The tenderest father in the world, he said, could not have behaved more tenderly, or shewed himself more delighted with his own children, than he did with those brats of Mrs. Oldham.
Ah, Charlotte! And is it out of doubt, that you are the daughter of Lady Grandison, and sister of Sir Charles Grandison? Well, but I believe you are Some children take after the father, some after the mother! Forgive me, my dear.
But I won’t. I have a great mind to quarrel with you, Harriet.
Pray don’t; because I could neither help, nor can be sorry for, what I said. But pray proceed.
Why he made presents to the children. I don’t know what they were; nor could the doctor tell me. I suppose very handsome ones; for he has the spirit of a prince. He enquired very particularly after the circumstances of the mother; and was more kind to her than many people would be to their own mo-thers He can account for this, I suppose though I cannot. The woman, it is true, is of a good fa-mily, and so forth: but that enhances her crime. Natural children abound in the present age. Keeping is fashionable. Good men should not counte — nance such wretches. But my brother and you are charitable creatures! With all my heart, child. Virtue, however, has at least as much to say on one side of the question as on the other.
When the poor children are in the world, as your brother said When the poor women are penitents, true penitents Your brother’s treatment of Mrs. Giffard was different. He is in both instances an imitator of the Almighty; an humbler of the impenitent, and an encourager of those who repent.
Well, well; he is undoubtedly a good sort of young man; and, Harriet, you are a good sort of young woman. Where much is given, much is required; but I have not given me such a large quantity of charity, as either of you may boast: and now can I help it? But, however, the woman went away blessing and praising him; and that, the doctor says, more with her eyes than she was able to do in words. The elder youth departed in rapturous re-verence: the children hung about his knees, on theirs. The doctor will have it, that it was without bidding Perhaps so He raised them by turns to his arms, and kissed them. Why, Harriet! your eyes would have run over, I suppose, had you been there! Is it, that your heart is weakened with your present situation? I hope not. No, you are a good creature! And I see that the mention of a behaviour greatly generous, however slightly made, will have its force upon a heart so truly benevolent as yours. You must be Lady Grandison, my dear: indeed you must. Well, but I must be gone. You dine with us tomorrow, my brother says.
He did ask me; and desired me to engage my H 2 cousins. But he repeated not the invitation when he went away.
He depends upon your coming: and so do we. He is to talk to me hefore you, it seems: I can’t tell about what: but by his hurrying on every — thing, it is plain he is preparing to leave us.
He is, madam.
“He is, madam! “ And with that dejected air, and mendicant voice Speak up like a woman! The sooner he sets out, if he must go, the sooner he will return. Come, come, Harriet, you shall be Lady Grandison still Ay! and thats/7; too! These lovesick folks have a language that nobody else can talk to them in: and then she affectedly sighed Is that right, Harriet? She sighed again No, it is not: 1 never knew what a sigh was, but when my father vexed my sister; and that was more for fear he should one day be as cruel to me, than for her sake. We can be very generous for others, Harriet, when we apprehend that one day we may want the same pity ourselves. Our best passions, my dear, have their mixtures of self-love.
You have drawn a picture of human nature, Charlotte, that I don’t like.
It is a likeness for all that.
She arose, snatched my hand, hurried to the door Be with us, Harriet, and cousin Reeves, and cou-sin Reeves, as soon as you can tomorrow. I want to talk to you, my dear, (to me) of a hundred thou-sand things before dinner. Rememberwe dine early.
Away she fluttered Happy Miss Grandison! What charming spirits she has!
Letter IX.
Miss Byron. In Continuation.