“My forgiveness! my Lord?” cried I, abashed, rather than elated by his condescension; “surely you cannot — you are not serious?”
“Indeed, never more so! yet, if I may be my own interpreter, Miss Anville’s countenance pronounces my pardon.”
“I know not, my Lord, how any one can pardon, who never has been offended.”
“You are very good; yet I could expect no less from a sweetness of disposition which baffles all comparison: you will not think I am an encroacher, and that I take advantage of your goodness, should I once more remind you of the promise you vouchsafed me yesterday?”
“No, indeed; on the contrary I shall be very happy to acquit myself in your Lordship’s opinion.”
“Acquittal you need not,” said he, leading me again to the window; “yet I own my curiosity is strongly excited.”
When I was seated, I found myself much at a loss what to say; yet, after a short silence, assuming all the courage in my power, “Will you not, my Lord,” said I, “think me trifling and capricious, should I own I have repented the promise I made, and should I entreat your Lordship not to insist upon my strict performance of it?” I spoke so hastily, that I did not, at the time, consider the impropriety of what I said.
As he was entirely silent, and profoundly attentive, I continued to speak without interruption.
“If your Lordship, by any other means, knew the circumstances attending my acquaintance with Mr. Macartney, I am most sure you would yourself disapprove my relating them. He is a gentleman, and has been very unfortunate; — but I am not — I think — at liberty to say more: yet I am sure, if he knew your Lordship wished to hear any particulars of his affairs, he would readily consent to my acknowledging them; — shall I, my Lord, ask his permission?”
“His affairs!” repeated Lord Orville; “by no means, I have not the least curiosity about them.”
“I beg your Lordship’s pardon — but indeed I had understood the contrary.”
“Is it possible, Madam, you could suppose the affairs of an utter stranger can excite my curiosity?”
The gravity and coldness with which he asked this question very much abashed me. But Lord Orville is the most delicate of men! and, presently recollecting himself, he added, “I mean not to speak with indifference of any friend of yours — far from it; any such will always command my good wishes: yet I own I am rather disappointed; and though I doubt not the justice of your reason, to which I implicitly submit, you must not wonder, that, when upon the point of being honoured with your confidence, I should feel the greatest regret at finding it withdrawn.”
Do you think, my dear sir, I did not, at that moment, require all my resolution to guard me from frankly telling him whatever he wished to hear? yet I rejoice that I did not; for, added to the actual wrong I should have done, Lord Orville himself, when he had heard, would, I am sure, have blamed me. Fortunately, this thought occurred to me; an I said, “Your Lordship shall yourself be my judge; the promise I made, though voluntary, was rash and inconsiderate; yet, had it concerned myself, I would not have hesitated in fulfilling it; but the gentleman, whose affairs I should be obliged to relate —”
“Pardon me,” cried he, “for interrupting you; yet allow me to assure you, I have not the slightest desire to be acquainted with his affairs, further than what belongs to the motives which induced you yesterday morning —” He stopped; but there was no occasion to say more.
“That, my Lord,” cried I, “I will tell you honestly. Mr. Macartney had some particular business with me, and I could not take the liberty to ask him hither.”
“And why not? — Mr. Beaumont, I am sure —”
“I could not, my Lord, think of intruding upon Mrs. Beaumont’s complaisance; and so, with the same hasty folly I promised your Lordship, I much more rashly promised to meet him.”
“And did you?”
“No, my Lord,” said I, colouring, “I returned before he came.”
Again, for some time, we were both silent; yet, unwilling to leave him to reflections which could not but be to my disadvantage, I summoned sufficient courage to say, “There is no young creature, my Lord, who so greatly wants, or so earnestly wishes for, the advice and assistance of her friends, as I do: I am new to the world, and unused to acting for myself; — my intentions are never willfully blameable, yet I err perpetually! — I have hitherto been blessed with the most affectionate of friends, and, indeed, the ablest of men, to guide and instruct me upon every occasion:— but he is too distant, now, to be applied to at the moment I want his aid:— and here — there is not a human being whose counsel I can ask.”
“Would to Heaven,” cried he, with a countenance from which all coldness and gravity were banished, and succeeded by the mildest benevolence, “that I were worthy — and capable — of supplying the place of such a friend to Miss Anville!”
“You do me but too much honour,” said I, “yet I hope your Lordship’s candour — perhaps I ought to say indulgence — will make some allowance, on account of my inexperience, for behaviour so inconsiderate:— May I, my Lord, hope that you will?”
“May I,” cried he, “hope that you will pardon the ill-grace with which I have submitted to my disappointment? And that you will permit me (kissing my hand) thus to seal my peace?”
“Our peace, my Lord!” said I, with revived spirits.
“This, then,” said he, again pressing it to his lips, “for our peace: and now — are we not friends?”
Just then the door opened, and I had only time to withdraw my hand, before the ladies came in to breakfast.
I have been, all day, the happiest of human beings! — to be thus reconciled to Lord Orville, and yet to adhere to my resolution — what could I wish for more? — he too has been very cheerful, and more attentive, more obliging to me than ever. Yet Heaven forbid I should again be in a similar situation, for I cannot express how much uneasiness I have suffered from the fear of incurring his ill opinion.
But what will poor Mr. Macartney think of me? Happy as I am, I much regret the necessity I have been under of disappointing him.
Adieu, my dearest Sir.
LETTER 67
MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA
Berry Hill, Sept. 28th.
Dead to the world, and equally insensible to its pleasures or its pains, I long since bad adieu to all joy, and defiance to all sorrow, but what should spring from my Evelina — sole source, to me, of all earthly felicity. How strange, then, is it, that the letter in which she tells me she is the happiest of human beings, should give me most mortal inquietude!
Alas, my child! — that innocence, the first, best gift of Heaven, should, of all others, be the blindest to its own danger — the most exposed to treachery — and the least able to defend itself, in a world where it is little known, less valued, and perpetually deceived!
Would to Heaven you were here! — then, by degrees, and with gentleness, I might enter upon a subject too delicate for distant discussion. Yet is it too interesting, and the situation too critical, to allow of delay. — Oh, my Evelina, your situation is critical indeed! — your peace of mind is at stake, and every chance for your future happiness may depend upon the conduct of the present moment.
Hitherto I have forborne to speak with you upon the most important of all concerns, the state of your heart:— alas, I need no information! I have been silent, indeed, but I have not been blind.
Long, and