The Complete Novels of Fanny Burney (Illustrated). Frances Burney
for tomorrow, and confessed the extreme terror it gave me. He then, in a manner almost unanswerable, besought me to leave to him the conduct of the affair, by consenting to be his before an interview took place.
I could not but acknowledge my sense of his generosity; but I told him I was wholly dependent upon you; and that I was certain your opinion would be the same as mine; which was, that it would be highly improper I should dispose of myself for ever, so very near the time which must finally decide by whose authority I ought to be guided. The subject of this dreaded meeting, with the thousand conjectures and apprehensions to which it gives birth, employed all our conversation then, as it has all my thoughts since.
Heaven only knows how I shall support myself, when the long expected — the wished — yet terrible moment arrives, that will prostrate me at the feet of the nearest, the most reverenced of all relations, whom my heart yearns to know, and longs to love!
LETTER 78
EVELINA IN CONTINUATION
Oct. 9th.
I could not write yesterday, so violent was the agitation of my mind; — but I will not, now, lose a moment till I have hastened to my best friend an account of the transactions of a day I can never recollect without emotion.
Mrs. Selwyn determined upon sending no message, “Lest,” said she, “Sir John, fatigued with the very idea of my reproaches, should endeavour to avoid a meeting. He cannot but see who you are, whether he will do you justice or not.”
We went early, and in Mrs. Beaumont’s chariot; into which Lord Orville, uttering words of the kindest encouragement, handed us both.
My uneasiness, during the ride, was excessive; but, when we stopped at the door, I was almost senseless with terror! the meeting, at last, was not so dreadful as that moment! I believe I was carried into the house; but I scarce recollect what was done with me: however, I know we remained some time in the parlour before Mrs. Selwyn could send any message up stairs.
When I was somewhat recovered, I intreated her to let me return home, assuring her I felt myself quite unequal to supporting the interview.
“No,” said she; “you must stay now: your fears will but gain strength by delay; and we must not have such a shock as this repeated.” Then, turning to the servant, she sent up her name.
An answer was brought, that he was going out in great haste, but would attend her immediately. I turned so sick, that Mrs. Selwyn was apprehensive I should have fainted; and, opening a door which led to an inner apartment, she begged me to wait there till I was somewhat composed, and till she had prepared for my reception.
Glad of every moment’s reprieve, I willingly agreed to the proposal; and Mrs. Selwyn had but just time to shut me in, before her presence was necessary.
The voice of a father — Oh, dear and revered name! — which then, for the first time, struck my ears, affected me in a manner I cannot describe, though it was only employed in giving orders to a servant as he came down stairs.
Then, entering the parlour, I heard him say, “I am sorry, Madam, I made you wait; but I have an engagement which now calls me away: however, if you have any commands for me, I shall be glad of the honour of your company some other time.”
“I am come, Sir,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “to introduce your daughter to you.”
“I am infinitely obliged to you,” answered he; “but I have just had the satisfaction of breakfasting with her. Ma’am, your most obedient.”
“You refuse, then, to see her?”
“I am much indebted to you, Madam, for this desire of increasing my family; but you must excuse me if I decline taking advantage of it. I have already a daughter, to whom I owe everything; and it is not three days since that I had the pleasure of discovering a son: how many more sons and daughters may be brought to me, I am yet to learn; but I am already perfectly satisfied with the size of my family.”
“Had you a thousand children, Sir John,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “this only one, of which Lady Belmont was the mother, ought to be most distinguished; and, far from avoiding her sight, you should thank your stars, in humble gratitude, that there yet remains in your power the smallest opportunity of doing the injured wife you have destroyed, the poor justice of acknowledging her child!”
“I am very unwilling, Madam,” answered he, “to enter into any discussion of this point; but you are determined to compel me to speak. There lives not at this time the human being, who should talk to me of the regret due to the memory of that ill-fated woman; no one can feel it so severely as myself; but let me, nevertheless, assure you, I have already done all that remained in my power to prove the respect she merited from me: her child I have educated, and owned for my lawful heiress: if, madam, you can suggest to me any other means by which I may more fully do her justice, and more clearly manifest her innocence, name them to me; and, though they should wound my character still deeper, I will perform them readily.”
“All this sounds vastly well,” returned Mrs. Selwyn; “but I must own it is rather too enigmatical for my faculties of comprehension. You can, however, have no objection to seeing this young lady.”
“None in the world.”
“Come forth, then, my dear,” cried she, opening the door; “come forth and see your father!” Then, taking my trembling hand, she led me forward. I would have withdrawn it and retreated; but, as he advanced instantly towards me, I found myself already before him.
What a moment for your Evelina — an involuntary scream escaped me, and, covering my face with my hands, I sunk on the floor.
He had, however, seen me first; for, in a voice scarce articulate, he exclaimed, “My God! does Caroline Evelyn still live!”
Mrs. Selwyn said something, but I could not listen to her; and in a few minutes he added, “Lift up thy head — if my sight has not blasted thee! — lift up thy head, thou image of my long lost Caroline!”
Affected beyond measure, I half arose, and embraced his knees, while yet on my own.
“Yes, yes,” cried he, looking earnestly in my face, “I see, I see thou art her child! she lives — she breathes — she is present to my view! — Oh, God, that she indeed lived! — Go, child, go,” added he, wildly starting, and pushing me from him: “take her away, Madam — I cannot bear to look at her!” And then, breaking hastily from me, he rushed out of the room.
Speechless, motionless myself, I attempted not to stop him; but Mrs. Selwyn, hastening after him, caught hold of his arm: “Leave me, Madam,” cried he, with quickness, “and take care of the poor child:— bid her not think me unkind; tell her, I would at this moment plunge a dagger in my heart to serve her: but she has set my brain on fire; and I can see her no more!” Then, with a violence almost frantic, he ran up stairs.
Oh, Sir, had I not indeed cause to dread this interview? — an interview so unspeakably painful and afflicting to us both! Mrs. Selwyn would have immediately returned to Clifton; but I entreated her to wait some time, in the hope that my unhappy father, when his first emotion was over, would again bear me in his sight. However, he soon after sent his servant to enquire how I did; and to tell Mrs. Selwyn he was much indisposed, but would hope for the honour of seeing her tomorrow, at any time she would please to appoint.
She fixed upon ten o’clock in the morning; and then, with a heavy heart, I got into the chariot. Those afflicting words, I can see her no more! were never a moment absent from my mind.
Yet the sight of Lord Orville, who handed us from the carriage, gave some relief to the sadness of my thoughts. I could not, however, enter upon the painful subject; but, begging Mrs. Selwyn to satisfy him, I went to my own room.
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