I was almost distracted with terror, and so breathless with running, that I could not speak; till another, advancing, said, I was as handsome as an angel, and desired to be of the party. I then just articulated, “For Heaven’s sake, gentlemen, let me pass!”
Another then rushing suddenly forward, exclaimed, “Heaven and earth! What voice is that? —”
“The voice of the prettiest little actress I have seen this age,” answered one of my persecutors.
“No — no — no —” I panted out, “I am no actress — pray let me go — pray let me pass —”
“By all that’s sacred,” cried the same voice, which I then knew for Sir Clement Willoughby’s, “’tis herself!”
“Sir Clement Willoughby!” cried I. “O, Sir, assist — assist me — or I shall die with terror!”
“Gentlemen,” cried he, disengaging them all from me in an instant, “pray leave this lady to me.”
Loud laughs proceeded from every mouth, and two or three said Willoughby has all the luck! But one of them, in a passionate manner, vowed he would not give me up, for that he had the first right to me, and would support it.
“You are mistaken,” said Sir Clement, “this lady is — I will explain myself to you another time; but, I assure you, you are all mistaken.”
And then taking my willing hand, he led me off, amidst the loud acclamations, laughter, and gross merriment of his impertinent companions.
As soon as we had escaped from them, Sir Clement, with a voice of surprise, exclaimed, “My dearest creature, what wonder, what strange revolution, has brought you to such a place as this?”
Ashamed of my situation, and extremely mortified to be thus recognized by him, I was for some time silent; and when he repeated his question, only stammered out, “I have — I hardly know how — lost from my party —”
He caught my hand, and eagerly pressing it, in a passionate voice said, “O that I had sooner met with thee!”
Surprised at a freedom so unexpected, I angrily broke from him, saying, “Is this the protection you give me, Sir Clement?”
And then I saw, what the perturbation of my mind had prevented my sooner noticing, that he had led me, though I know not how, into another of the dark alleys, instead of the place whither I meant to go.
“Good God!” I cried, “where am I? — What way are you going?”
“Where,” answered he, “we shall be least observed!”
Astonished at this speech, I stopped short, and declared I would go no further.
“And why not, my angel?” again endeavouring to take my hand.
My heart beat with resentment; I pushed him away from me with all my strength, and demanded how he dared treat me with such insolence?
“Insolence!” repeated he.
“Yes, Sir Clement, insolence; from you, who know me, I had a claim for protection — not to such treatment as this.”
“By Heaven,” cried he, with warmth, “you distract me; — why, tell me — why do I see you here? — Is this a place for Miss Anville? — these dark walks! — no party! no companion! — by all that’s good I can scarce believe my senses!”
Extremely offended at this speech, I turned angrily from him: and, not deigning to make any answer, walked on towards that part of the garden whence I perceived the lights and company.
He followed me; but we were both some time silent.
“So you will not explain to me your situation?” said he, at length.
“No, Sir,” answered I, disdainfully.
“Nor yet — suffer me to make my own interpretation? —”
I could not bear this strange manner of speaking; it made my very soul shudder — and I burst into tears.
He flew to me, and actually flung himself at my feet, as if regardless who might see him, saying, “O, Miss Anville — loveliest of women — forgive my — my — I beseech you forgive me; — if I have offended — if I have hurt you — I could kill myself at the thought! —”
“No matter, Sir, no matter,” cried I; “if I can but find my friends — I will never speak to — never see you again!”
“Good God! — good Heaven! My dearest life, what is it I have done? — what is it I have said? —”
“You best know, Sir, what and why: but don’t hold me here — let me be gone; and do you!”
“Not till you forgive me! — I cannot part with you in anger.”
“For shame, for shame, Sir!” cried I, indignantly, “do you suppose I am to be thus compelled? — do you take advantage of the absence of my friends to affront me?”
“No, Madam,” cried he, rising: “I would sooner forfeit my life than act so mean a part. But you have flung me into amazement unspeakable, and you will not condescend to listen to my request of giving me some explanation.”
“The manner, Sir,” said I, “in which you spoke that request, made, and will make, me scorn to answer it.”
“Scorn! — I will own to you, I expected not such displeasure from Miss Anville.”
“Perhaps, Sir, if you had, you would less voluntarily have merited it.”
“My dearest life, surely it must be known to you, that the man does not breathe who adores you so passionately, so fervently, so tenderly as I do! — Why, then, will you delight in perplexing me? — in keeping me in suspense? — in torturing me with doubt?”
“I, Sir, delight in perplexing you! — you are much mistaken. — Your suspense, your doubts, your perplexities — are of your own creating; and believe me, Sir, they may offend, but they can never delight me:— but as you have yourself raised, you must yourself satisfy them.”
“Good God! — that such haughtiness and such sweetness can inhabit the same mansion!”
I made no answer; but quickening my pace I walked on silently and sullenly, till this most impetuous of men, snatching my hand, which he grasped with violence, besought me to forgive him with such earnestness of supplication, that, merely to escape his importunities, I was forced to speak, and in some measure to grant the pardon he requested; though it was accorded with a very ill grace: but, indeed, I knew not how to resist the humility of his intreaties: yet never shall I recollect the occasion he gave me of displeasure, without feeling it renewed.
We now soon arrived in the midst of the general crowd; and, my own safety being then insured, I grew extremely uneasy for the Miss Branghtons, whose danger, however imprudently incurred by their own folly, I too well knew how to tremble for. To this consideration all my pride of heart yielded, and I determined to seek my party with the utmost speed; though not without a sigh did I recollect the fruitless attempt I had made after the opera, of concealing from this man my unfortunate connections, which I was now obliged to make known.
I hastened, therefore, to the room, with a view of sending young Branghton to the aid of his sisters. In a very short time I perceived Madame Duval, and the rest, looking at one of the paintings.
I must own to you honestly, my dear Sir, that an involuntary repugnance seized me at presenting such a set to Sir Clement — he who had been used to see me in parties so different! — My pace slackened as I approached them — but they presently perceived me.
“Ah, Mademoiselle!” cried M. Du Bois, “Que je suis charme de vous voir!”
“Pray, Miss,” cried Mr. Brown, “where’s