Which contains a very interesting discovery.
Freeman, though persuaded that miss Belmour was a woman of intrigue, and by consequence entertaining no elevated idea of her companion, yet found himself so awed by the modesty that shone in her countenance, and the dignity of her person and manner, that he was at some loss how to introduce the subject which had brought him thither. Henrietta, however, innocently led him to it, by expressing her surprise to see him still in Paris.
“You say nothing of my friend, madam,” said Freeman; “and this indifference with regard to him is a very bad omen.”
“I hope Mr. Melvil is well,” said Henrietta, gravely, without seeming to take any notice of the strange speech he had made.
“He is better than he was three or four days ago,” replied Freeman, “when his physicians despaired of his life.”
“Bless me!” cried Henrietta, with an emotion she could not suppress, “has Mr. Melvil been so ill then? I am extremely concerned to hear it.”
“You would, no doubt,” said Freeman, “be more concerned if you knew you were the cause.”
“This kind of raillery, Mr. Freeman,” replied Henrietta, a little confused, “is not at all agreeable to me, I assure you.”
“By Heaven I am serious,” resumed Freeman; “my friend loves you with the utmost ardor: I am a witness to the birth and progress of his passion, and to his fruitless endeavours to conquer it. The effort he made to leave Paris, has almost cost him his life; he was taken ill the evening before our intended departure. Oh, miss Benson! had you heard with what tenderness he called upon your name, when the violence of his fever had deprived him of his senses, I am sure you must have pitied him.”
Freeman perceived by the changes in Henrietta’s countenance, that she did not hear him without emotion. He paused, in expectation of some pretty affected answer, that would give hope while it seemed to destroy it; but Henrietta, with a composed look and accent, replied,
“If I am to believe this account of your friend’s illness not exaggerated, permit me to ask you, sir, what is your design by making me acquainted with his sentiments, and what you expect from me on this occasion?”
Freeman was a little disconcerted by this speech, and at the manner in which she delivered it; but, relying on the intelligence he had received from miss Belmour,
“I expect you will have compassion on my friend (said he) and give him an opportunity to declare to you himself the passion you have inspired him with.”
“I will be very free with you, Mr. Freeman,” replied Henrietta; “your ready concurrence with your friend in the liking you say he has entertained for me, is not consistent with your good sense and prudence. Mr. Melvil is a young man of rank and fortune; I am poor and dependent; my birth perhaps greatly inferior to his. Will his parents, think you, approve of such a choice?”
“What have parents to do with a tender engagement?” interrupted Freeman; “an engagement in which the heart only is consulted.”
“Were my heart ever so well disposed in favour of your friend,” resumed Henrietta, not willing to understand him, “I would not receive his addresses without the sanction of his parents consent.”
Freeman could hardly help smiling at this formal declaration; and, supposing that the best way to drive these strange notions out of her head, was to acquaint her with Melvil’s quality, which he likewise expected would have no small influence over her,
“It is not fit (said he) that you should be any longer ignorant of the rank of him whom your charms have subjected. Melvil is not the name of my friend; he is the heir of an illustrious title and a great estate: he loves you, he will make your fortune; do not throw away this opportunity of freeing yourself from poverty and dependance, nor let a romantic notion of virtue deprive you of the advantages that are offered you.”
“Hold, sir,” interrupted Henrietta, rising from her chair, “this insult is too plain; I ought not to have listened to you so long.” She spoke this with tolerable composure; but, finding her tears begin to flow, she turned aside to conceal them, and hastily wiping her eyes, she looked on him again with a kind of calm disdain.
“I know not, (said she) what weakness you have discovered in my behaviour to encourage you to make me such shocking proposals; but I may venture to tell you, though I am not the mistress of this apartment, that the doors of it shall never be open to you again.”
She was hurrying out of the room when she had spoke this, leaving Freeman in so much confusion, that he knew not what to say to her, when miss Belmour entered with a letter in her hand.
“Do you know a gentleman of the name of Damer, (said she to Henrietta) who is at present at Montpelier?”
“I do, madam,” replied she, looking eagerly at the letter.
“Then this letter is for you, I suppose,” said miss Belmour, “it was inclosed in another to me, and directed to my banker’s: but is your name Courteney? you see the superscription is for miss Courteney?”
“The letter is certainly for me, madam,” said Henrietta, blushing.
“Oh! then,” replied miss Belmour, smiling, and giving it to her, “I have discovered a secret, I find.”
Henrietta retired immediately; and miss Belmour approached Mr. Freeman, who stood leaning over his chair, with his eyes fixed on the ground,
“What is the matter with you? (said she) you look excessively pale.”
“Where is miss Benson, madam?” said he, starting out of his reverie at the sound of her voice.
“She is in her own chamber, I believe,” replied miss Belmour; “but did you take notice of what passed about the letter? I delivered it to her before you on purpose: you see she in a manner owned that Courteney is her true name; is not this strange?”
“I must beg leave to speak to her again,” said he, interrupting her, and making towards the door, “which way, pray madam?”
Miss Belmour followed him, surprised at the agitation he appeared to be in; and, pointing to a room just opposite, “you will find her there,” said she.
Freeman opened the door without any ceremony; Henrietta, who was reading her letter, looked up at the noise he made in entering: “this is extremely rude, sir (said she) I desire you will instantly be gone, and trouble me no more.” But, apprehensive that he would not quit her so easily, she rushed by him, and was running to the room in which she had left miss Belmour: he took hold of her hand, to prevent her leaving him; and she was upon the point of expressing her resentment at the insolence of this treatment, in harsher terms than any she had yet used, when she saw tears gush in great abundance from his eyes. Moved at this sight, she stood still, but endeavoured to disengage her hand, looking at him earnestly, and in the utmost astonishment.
“O my sister!” cried he at last, bursting into a fresh flood of tears; “my dear, dear sister”—He was not able to utter a word more, but led her gently back to her chamber, which she permitted, trembling, confused, and full of anxious expectation.
“How strangely you look upon me!” said he, “do you doubt whether I am your brother?”
“I know not what to think,” replied she, shrinking from his embrace; for he had folded his arms about her.
“Dear girl!” cried he, “how amiable is this sweet reserve—these modest doubts—but it is certain I am your brother, my Henrietta: is it possible your memory retains no traces of my features? in your’s, methinks I see a lively resemblance of my dear mother. How dull was I that I did not discover it before! but how could I expect to meet you in France, in such a situation, and under a disguised name! Oh! my dear sister, these circumstances distract me—Good Heaven! what a part have I acted—I perceive you are still perplexed,” pursued he, after a little pause; and, taking a miniature picture out of his pocket, “You will certainly be able to recollect your mother’s picture (said he) which she gave me at parting.”
Henrietta looked at the picture, kissed it, and then threw herself in tears upon her brother’s neck—“Forgive my doubts (said she) it is many years since I have seen you; we were children when we parted, but now I am convinced you are my brother: my heart tells me so without this dear testimony,” pursued she, kissing again the picture of her mother, which she still held; then suddenly clasping her hands together, and lifting up her fine eyes, which were swimming in tears, “I thank thee, O my God! (said she) for restoring to me my brother:” and, turning again to him with an affectionate look, “a few moments ago (said she) I thought myself very unhappy, but now you will be a friend and protector to me.”
He tenderly kissed her cheek—“What a wretch have I been!” said he, sighing—“Indeed, my dear sister, I never shall forgive myself for having ignorantly practised on your virtue.”
“Oh! that my brother,” replied Henrietta, “would be taught by this accident never more to form designs against innocence; and, in cases like mine, to consider every virtuous young woman as a sister.”
Mr. Courteney, for so we shall now call him, was extremely moved at these words. He gazed at her some moments with mingled tenderness and delight; but all on a sudden, as if struck with some painful reflection,
“Henrietta,” said he, with a look and accent greatly altered from his former sweetness, “why came you to France? and how has it happened that you are so intimately connected with this woman, this miss Belmour?”
“Why, do you know any harm of miss Belmour?” said Henrietta, frighted at his sternness.
“You don’t answer my question,” replied he, peevishly.
“Alas! my dear brother,” said Henrietta, “I have a long and melancholy story to tell you: I have been reduced to great distress; my aunt, with whom you supposed me so happily settled, has treated me unkindly: I must confess, indeed, I have not been wholly free from blame; but you shall know all some other time. As for miss Belmour, I was recommended to her—I would not shock you, brother; but I have been obliged to go to service, and I was recommended to miss Belmour by two ladies of quality, her near relations.”
Mr. Courteney sighed deeply at this account, and remained for several moments silent; at length recovering himself,
“Miss Belmour, it seems (said he) did not always know your real name—You appear to be on the footing of a companion.”
“Miss Belmour was pleased to take a liking to me,” said Henrietta; “and, though ignorant of my birth, would not suffer me to continue with her in the character of a servant—I have been greatly obliged to her.”
“Yes, you are obliged to her,” interrupted Mr. Courteney, kindling into rage at the remembrance of what had passed between them; “infamous wretch! she has done her part towards betraying you to ruin. You have been very imprudent, Henrietta; you have talked to her of Mr. Melvil too freely: she believes you are in love with him, and told me so, to encourage my attempts upon you.”
Henrietta blushed at the mention of Mr. Melvil, and presently after burst into tears at this discovery of miss Belmour’s baseness and ingratitude, but uttered not a word of complaint or resentment.
“I will not suffer you to remain any longer with her,” resumed Mr. Courteney; “I will go directly and provide you lodgings in the house of a worthy English family: I suppose you can have no objection to this proposal.”
“Why do you look and speak so coldly, my dear brother?” said Henrietta: “to be sure I can have no objection; dispose of me as you please, you are in the place of my father, I will obey you as such.”
“Forgive me, my dear,” said he, tenderly pressing her hand, “my temper is warm; I have spoke to you harshly: indeed I am greatly alarmed at the disagreeable circumstances I find you in: you have been to blame, you own. Alas! my dear sister, what have you done to be thus abandoned by your aunt? I shall be on the rack till I have heard all your story; but this is not a proper place—Take a civil leave of miss Belmour, but do not acquaint her that you have discovered your brother, for I know not yet what measures I shall take; I will call for you in less than an hour in a coach.”
Henrietta promised to be ready; he took a tender leave of her, and departed.