By the way, we people of warm imaginations have vast advantages overothers; we scorn to be confined to present scenes, or to giveattention to such trifling objects as times and seasons.
I already anticipate the spring; see the woodbines and wild rosesbloom in my grove, and almost catch the gale of perfume.
Twelve o'clock.
I have this moment received your letter.
I am sorry for what you tell me of Miss H----; whose want of art hasled her into indiscretions.
'Tis too common to see the most innocent, nay, even the mostlaudable actions censured by the world; as we cannot, however,eradicate the prejudices of others, it is wisdom to yield to them inthings which are indifferent.
One ought to conform to, and respect the customs, as well as thelaws and religion of our country, where they are not contrary tovirtue, and to that moral sense which heaven has imprinted on oursouls; where they are contrary, every generous mind will despise them.
I agree with you, my dear friend, that two persons who love, notonly _seem_, but really are, handsomer to each other than to therest of the world.
When we look at those we ardently love, a new softness stealsunperceived into the eyes, the countenance is more animated, and thewhole form has that air of tender languor which has such charms forsensible minds.
To prove the truth of this, my Emily approaches, fair as the risingmorn, led by the hand of the Graces; she sees her lover, and everycharm is redoubled; an involuntary smile, a blush of pleasure, speak apassion, which is the pride of my soul.
Even her voice, melodious as it is by nature, is softened when sheaddresses her happy Rivers.
She comes to ask my attendance on her and my mother; they are goingto pay a morning visit a few miles off.
Adieu! tell the little Bell I kiss her hand.
Your affectionate Ed. Rivers.
LETTER 206.
To Captain Fitzgerald.
Three o'clock.
We are returned, and have met with an adventure, which I must tellyou.
About six miles from home, at the entrance of a small village, as Iwas riding very fast, a little before the chaise, a boy about fouryears old, beautiful as a Cupid, came out of a cottage on theright-hand, and, running cross the road, fell almost under my horse'sfeet.
I threw myself off in a moment; and snatching up the child, who was,however, unhurt, carried him to the house.
I was met at the door by a young woman, plainly drest; but of a formuncommonly elegant: she had seen the child fall, and her terror for himwas plainly marked in her countenance; she received him from me,pressed him to her bosom, and, without speaking, melted into tears.
My mother and Emily had by this time reached the cottage; thehumanity of both was too much interested to let them pass: theyalighted, came into the house, and enquired about the child, with anair of tenderness which was not lost on the young person, whom wesupposed his mother.
She appeared about two and twenty, was handsome, with an air of theworld, which the plainness of her dress could not hide; her countenancewas pensive, with a mixture of sensibility which instantly prejudicedus all in her favor; her look seemed to say, she was unhappy, and thatshe deserved to be otherwise.
Her manner was respectful, but easy and unconstrained; polite,without being servile; and she acknowledged the interest we all seemedto take in what related to her, in a manner that convinced us shedeserved it.
Though every thing about us, the extreme neatness, the elegantsimplicity of her house and little garden, her own person, that of thechild, both perfectly genteel, her politeness, her air of the world, ina cottage like that of the meanest laborer, tended to excite the mostlively curiosity; neither good-breeding, humanity, nor the respect dueto those who appear unfortunate, would allow us to make any enquiries:we left the place full of this adventure, convinced of the merit, aswell as unhappiness, of its fair inhabitant, and resolved to find out,if possible, whether her misfortunes were of a kind to be alleviated,and within our little power to alleviate.
I will own to you, my dear Fitzgerald, I at that moment felt thesmallness of my fortune: and I believe Emily had the same sensations,though her delicacy prevented her naming them to me, who have made herpoor.
We can talk of nothing but the stranger; and Emily is determined tocall on her again to-morrow, on pretence of enquiring after the healthof the child.
I tremble lest her story, for she certainly has one, should be suchas, however it may entitle her to compassion, may make it impossiblefor Emily to shew it in the manner she seems to wish.
Adieu! Your faithful Ed. Rivers.
LETTER 207.
To Captain Fitzgerald.
Bellfield, Oct. 24.
We have been again at the cottage; and are more convinced thanever, that this amiable girl is not in the station in which she wasborn; we staid two hours, and varied the conversation in a mannerwhich, in spite of her extreme modesty, made it impossible for her toavoid shewing she had been educated with uncommon care: her style iscorrect and elegant; her sentiments noble, yet unaffected; we talkedof books, she said little on the subject; but that little shewed ataste which astonished us.
Anxious as we are to know her true situation, in order, if shemerits it, to endeavor to serve her, yet delicacy made it impossiblefor us to give the least hint of a curiosity which might make hersuppose we entertained ideas to her prejudice.
She seemed greatly affected with the humane concern Emily expressedfor the child's danger yesterday, as well as with the polite and evenaffectionate manner in which she appeared to interest herself in allwhich related to her; Emily made her general offers of service with atimid kind of softness in her air, which seemed to speak rather aperson asking a favor than wishing to confer an obligation.
She thanked my sweet Emily with a look of surprize and gratitude towhich it is not easy to do justice; there was, however, anembarrassment in her countenance at those offers, which a little alarmsme; she absolutely declined coming to Bellfield: I know not what tothink.
Emily, who has taken a strong prejudice in her favor, will answerfor her conduct with her life; but I will own to you, I am not withoutmy doubts.
When I consider the inhuman arts of the abandoned part of one sex,and the romantic generosity and too unguarded confidence, of the mostamiable of the other; when I reflect that where women love, they lovewithout reserve; that they fondly imagine the man who is dear to thempossessed of every virtue; that their very integrity of mind preventstheir suspicions; when I think of her present retirement, soapparently ill suited to her education; when I see her beauty, herelegance of person, with that tender and melancholy air, so stronglyexpressive of the most exquisite sensibility; when, in short, I see thechild, and observe her fondness for him, I have fears for her, which Icannot conquer.
I am as firmly convinced as Emily of the goodness of her heart; butI am not so certain that even that very goodness may not have been,from an unhappy concurrence of circumstances, her misfortune.
We have company to dine.
Adieu! till the evening.
Ten at night.
About three hours ago, Emily received the inclosed, from our faircottager.
Adieu! Your affectionate Ed. Rivers.
"To Mrs. Rivers.
"Madam,
"Though I have every reason to wish the melancholy event whichbrought me here, might continue unknown; yet your generous concern fora stranger, who had no recommendation to your notice but her appearingunhappy, and whose suspicious situation would have injured her in amind less noble than yours, has determined me to lay before you astory, which it was my resolution to conceal for ever.
"I saw, Madam, in your countenance, when you honored me by callingat my house this morning, and I saw with an admiration no words canspeak, the amiable struggle between the desire of knowing the nature ofmy distress in order to soften it, and the delicacy which forbad yourenquiries, lest they should wound my sensibility
and self-love.
"To such a heart I run no hazard in relating what in the worldwould, perhaps, draw on me a thousand reproaches; reproaches, however,I flatter myself, undeserved.
"You have had the politeness to say, there is something in myappearance which speaks my birth above my present situation: in this,Madam, I am so happy as not to deceive your generous partiality.
"My father, who was an officer of family and merit, had themisfortune to lose my mother whilst I was an infant.
"He had the goodness to take on himself the care of directing myeducation, and to have me taught whatever he thought becoming my sex,though at an expence much too great for his income.
"As he had little more than his commission, his parental tendernessgot so far the better of his love for his profession, that, when I wasabout fifteen, he determined on quitting the army, in order to providebetter for me; but, whilst he was in treaty for this purpose, a fevercarried him off in a few days, and left me to the world, with littlemore than five hundred pounds, which, however, was, by his will,immediately in my power.
"I felt too strongly the loss of this excellent parent to attend toany other consideration; and, before I was enough myself to think whatI was to do for a subsistence, a friend of my own age, whom I tenderlyloved, who was just returning from school to her father's, in the northof England, insisted on my accompanying her, and spending some timewith her in the country.
"I found in my dear Sophia, all the consolation my grief couldreceive; and, at her pressing solicitation, and that of her father, whosaw his daughter's happiness depended on having me with her, Icontinued there three years, blest in the calm delights of friendship,and those blameless pleasures, with which we should be too happy, ifthe heart could content itself, when a young baronet, whose form wasas lovely as his soul was dark, came to interrupt our felicity.
"My Sophia, at a ball, had the misfortune to attract his notice; shewas rather handsome, though without regular features; her form waselegant and feminine, and she had an air of youth, of softness, ofsensibility, of blushing innocence, which seemed intended to inspiredelicate passions alone, and which would have disarmed any mind lessdepraved than that of the man, who only admired to destroy.
"She was the rose-bud yet impervious to the sun.
"Her heart was tender, but had never met an object which seemedworthy of it; her sentiments were disinterested, and romantic toexcess.
"Her father was, at that time, in Holland, whither the death of arelation, who had left him a small estate, had called him: we werealone, unprotected, delivered up to the unhappy inexperience of youth,mistresses of our own conduct; myself, the eldest of the two, but justeighteen, when my Sophia's ill-fate conducted Sir Charles Verville tothe ball where she first saw him.
"He danced with her, and endeavored to recommend himself by allthose little unmeaning, but flattering attentions, by which ourcredulous sex are so often misled; his manner was tender, yet timid,modest, respectful; his eyes were continually fixed on her, but when hemet hers, artfully cast down, as if afraid of offending.
"He asked permission to enquire after her health the next day; hecame, he was enchanting; polite, lively, soft, insinuating, adornedwith every outward grace which could embellish virtue, or hide vicefrom view, to see and to love him was almost the same thing.
"He entreated leave to continue his visits, which he found nodifficulty in obtaining: during two months, not a day passed withoutour seeing him; his behaviour was such as would scarce have alarmed themost suspicious heart; what then could be expected of us, young,sincere, totally ignorant of the world, and strongly prejudiced infavor of a man, whose conversation spoke his soul the abode of everyvirtue?
"Blushing I must own, nothing but the apparent preference he gave tomy lovely friend, could have saved my heart from being a prey to thesame tenderness which ruined her.
"He addressed her with all the specious arts which vice could inventto seduce innocence; his respect, his esteem, seemed equal to hispassion; he talked of honor, of the delight of an union where thetender affections alone were consulted; wished for her father'sreturn, to ask her of him in marriage; pretended to count impatientlythe hours of his absence, which delayed his happiness: he evenprevailed on her to write her father an account of his addresses.
"New to love, my Sophia's young heart too easily gave way to thesoft impression; she loved, she idolized this most base of mankind;she would have thought it a kind of sacrilege to have had any will inopposition to his.
"After some months of unremitted assiduity, her father beingexpected in a few days, he dropped a hint, as if by accident, that hewished his fortune less, that he might be the more certain he was lovedfor himself alone; he blamed himself for this delicacy, but charged iton excess of love; vowed he would rather die than injure her, yetwished to be convinced her fondness was without reserve.
"Generous, disinterested, eager to prove the excess and sincerity ofher passion, she fell into the snare; she agreed to go off with him,and live some time in a retirement where she was to see only himself,after which he engaged to marry her publicly.
"He pretended extasies at this proof of affection, yet hesitated toaccept it; and, by piquing the generosity of her soul, which knew noguile, and therefore suspected none, led her to insist on devotingherself to wretchedness.
"In order, however, that this step might be as little known aspossible, as he pretended the utmost concern for that honor he wascontriving to destroy, it was agreed between them, that he should goimmediately to London, and that she should follow him, under pretenceof a visit to a relation at some distance; the greatest difficulty was,how to hide this design from me.
"She had never before concealed a thought from her beloved Fanny;nor could he now have prevailed on her to deceive me, had he notartfully perswaded her I was myself in love with him; and that,therefore, it would be cruel, as well as imprudent, to trust me withthe secret.
"Nothing shews so strongly the power of love, in absorbing everyfaculty of the soul, as my dear Sophia's being prevailed on to use artwith the friend most dear to her on earth.
"By an unworthy piece of deceit, I was sent to a relation for someweeks; and the next day Sophia followed her infamous lover, leavingletters for me and her father, calculated to perswade us, they wereprivately married.
"My distress, and that of the unhappy parent, may more easily beconceived than described; severe by nature, he cast her from his heartand fortune for ever, and settled his estate on a nephew, then at theuniversity.
"As to me, grief and tenderness were the only sensations I felt: Iwent to town, and took every private method to discover her retreat,but in vain; till near a year after, when, being in London, with afriend of my mother's, a servant, who had lived with my Sophia, saw mein the street, and knew me: by her means, I discovered that she was indistress, abandoned by her lover, in that moment when his tendernesswas most necessary.
"I flew to her, and found her in a miserable apartment, in whichnothing but an extreme neatness would have made me suppose she had everseen happier days: the servant who brought me to her attended her.
"She was in bed, pale, emaciated; the lovely babe you saw with me inher arms.
"Though prepared for my visit, she was unable to bear the shock ofseeing me; I ran to her, she raised herself in the bed, and, throwingher feeble arms round my neck, could only say, 'My Fanny! is thispossible!' and fainted away.
"Our cares having recovered her, she endeavored to compose herself;her eyes were fixed tenderly on me, she pressed my hand between hers,the tears stole silently down her cheeks; she looked at her child, thenat me; she would have spoke, but the feelings of her heart were toostrong for expression.
"I begged her to be calm, and promised to spend the day with her;I did not yet dare, lest the emotion should be too much for her weakstate, to tell her we would part no more.
"I took a room in the house, and determined to give all my attentionto the restoration of her health; after which, I hoped to contrive
tomake my little fortune, with industry, support us both.
"I sat up with her that night; she got a little rest, she seemedbetter in the morning; she told me the particulars I have alreadyrelated; she, however, endeavored to soften the cruel behaviour of thewretch, whose name I could not hear without horror.
"She had in the afternoon a little fever; I sent for a physician,he thought her in danger; what did not my heart feel from thisinformation? she grew worse, I never left her one moment.
"The next morning she called me to her; she took my hand, andlooking at me with a tenderness no language can describe,
"'My dear, my only friend,' said she, 'I am dying; you are come toreceive the last breath of your unhappy Sophia: I wish with ardor formy father's blessing and forgiveness, but dare not ask them.
"'The weakness of my heart has undone me; I am lost, abandoned by himon whom my soul doated; by him, for whom I would have sacrificed athousand lives; he has left me with my babe to perish, yet I still lovehim with unabated fondness: the pang of losing him sinks me to thegrave!'
"Her speech here failed her for a time; but recovering, sheproceeded,
"'Hard as this request may seem, and to whatever miseries it mayexpose my angel friend, I adjure you not to desert my child; save himfrom the wretchedness that threatens him; let him find in you a mothernot less tender, but more virtuous, than his own.
"'I know, my Fanny, I undo you by this cruel confidence; but who elsewill have mercy on this innocent?'