The Complete Novels of Fanny Burney (Illustrated). Frances Burney
were over, I would have left the room, but he stopped me by saying, “If I disturb you Miss Anville, I am gone.”
“My Lord,” said I, rather embarrassed, “I did not mean to stay.”
“I flattered myself,” cried he, “I should have had a moment’s conversation with you.”
I then turned back; and he seemed himself in some perplexity: but, after a short pause, “You are very good,” said he, “to indulge my request; I have, indeed, for some time past, most ardently desired an opportunity of speaking to you.”
Again he paused; but I said nothing, so he went on.
“You allowed me, Madam, a few days since, you allowed me to lay claim to your friendship — to interest myself in your affairs — to call you by the affectionate title of sister; — and the honour you did me, no man could have been more sensible of; I am ignorant, therefore, how I have been so unfortunate as to forfeit it:— but, at present, all is changed! you fly me — your averted eye shuns to meet mine, and you sedulously avoid my conversation.”
I was extremely disconcerted at this grave, and but too just accusation, and I am sure I must look very simple; — but I made no answer.
“You will not, I hope,” continued he, “condemn me unheard; if there is any thing I have done — or any thing I have neglected, tell me, I beseech you, what, and it shall be the whole study of my thoughts how to deserve your pardon.”
“Oh, my Lord,” cried I, penetrated at once with shame and gratitude, “your too, too great politeness oppresses me! — you have done nothing — I have never dreamt of offence — if there is any pardon to be asked it is rather for me, than for you to ask it.”
“You are all sweetness and condescension!” cried he, “and I flatter myself you will again allow me to claim those titles which I find myself so unable to forego. Yet, occupied as I am, with an idea that gives me the greatest uneasiness, I hope you will not think me impertinent, if I still solicit, still intreat, nay implore, you to tell me, to what cause your late sudden, and to me most painful, reserve was owing?”
“Indeed, my Lord,” said I, stammering, “I don’t — I can’t — indeed, my Lord — ”
“I am sorry to distress you,” said he, “and ashamed to be so urgent — yet I know not how to be satisfied while in ignorance — and the time when the change happened, makes me apprehend — may I, Miss Anville, tell you what it makes me apprehend?”
“Certainly, my Lord.”
“Tell me, then — and pardon a question most essentially important to me; — Had, or had not, Sir Clement Willoughby any share in causing your inquietude?”
“No, my Lord,” answered I, with firmness, “none in the world.”
“A thousand, thousand thanks!” cried he: “you have relieved me from a weight of conjecture which I supported very painfully. But one thing more; is it, in any measure, to Sir Clement that I may attribute the alteration in your behaviour to myself, which, I could not but observe, began the very day after his arrival at the Hot Wells?”
“To Sir Clement, my Lord,” said I, “attribute nothing. He is the last man in the world who would have any influence over my conduct.”
“And will you, then, restore to me that share of confidence and favour with which you honoured me before he came?”
Just then, to my great relief — for I knew not what to say — Mrs. Beaumont opened the door, and in a few minutes we went to breakfast.
Lord Orville was all gaiety; never did I see him more lively or more agreeable. Very soon after, Sir Clement Willoughby called, to pay his respects, he said, to Mrs. Beaumont. I then came to my own room, where, indulging my reflections, which, now soothed, and now alarmed me, I remained very quietly, till I received your most kind letter.
Oh, Sir, how sweet are the prayers you offer for your Evelina! how grateful to her are the blessings you pour upon her head! — You commit me to my real parent — Ah, Guardian, Friend, Protector of my youth — by whom my helpless infancy was cherished, my mind formed, my very life preserved — you are the Parent my heart acknowledges, and to you do I vow eternal duty, gratitude, and affection!
I look forward to the approaching interview with more fear than hope; but, important as is this subject, I am just now wholly engrossed with another, which I must hasten to communicate.
I immediately acquainted Mrs. Selwyn with the purport of your letter. She was charmed to find your opinion agreed with her own, and settled that we should go to town tomorrow morning: and a chaise is actually ordered to be here by one o’clock.
She then desired me to pack up my clothes; and said she must go herself to make speeches and tell lies to Mrs. Beaumont.
When I went down stairs to dinner, Lord Orville, who was still in excellent spirits, reproached me for secluding myself so much from the company. He sat next me — he would sit next me — at table; and he might, I am sure, repeat what he once said of me before, that he almost exhausted himself in fruitless endeavours to entertain me; for, indeed, I was not to be entertained: I was totally spiritless and dejected; the idea of the approaching meeting — and Oh, Sir, the idea of the approaching parting — gave a heaviness to my heart that I could neither conquer nor repress. I even regretted the half explanation that had passed, and wished Lord Orville had supported his own reserve, and suffered me to support mine.
However, when, during dinner, Mrs. Beaumont spoke of our journey, my gravity was no longer singular; a cloud instantly overspread the countenance of Lord Orville, and he became nearly as thoughtful and as silent as myself.
We all went together to the drawing-room. After a short and unentertaining conversation, Mrs. Selwyn said she must prepare for her journey, and begged me to see for some books she had left in the parlour.
And here, while I was looking for them, I was followed by Lord Orville. He shut the door after he came in, and, approaching me with a look of anxiety, said, “Is this true, Miss Anville, are you going?”
“I believe so, my Lord,” said I, still looking for the books.
“So suddenly, so unexpectedly must I lose you?”
“No great loss, my Lord,” cried I, endeavouring to speak cheerfully.
“Is it possible,” said he gravely, “Miss Anville can doubt my sincerity?”
“I can’t imagine,” cried I, “what Mrs. Selwyn has done with these books.”
“Would to Heaven,” continued he, “I might flatter myself you would allow me to prove it!”
“I must run up stairs,” cried I, greatly confused, “and ask what she has done with them.”
“You are going, then,” cried he, taking my hand, “and you give me not the smallest hope of your return! — will you not, then, my too lovely friend! — will you not, at least, teach me, with fortitude like your own, to support your absence?”
“My Lord,” cried I, endeavouring to disengage my hand, “pray let me go!”
“I will,” cried he, to my inexpressible confusion, dropping on one knee, “if you wish to leave me!”
“O, my Lord,” exclaimed I, “rise, I beseech you, rise! — such a posture to me! — surely your Lordship is not so cruel as to mock me!”
“Mock you!” repeated he earnestly, “no I revere you! I esteem and I admire you above all human beings! you are the friend to whom my soul is attached as to its better half! you are the most amiable, the most perfect of women! and you are dearer to me than language has the power of telling.”
I attempt not to describe my sensations at that moment; I scarce breathed; I doubted if I existed — the blood forsook my cheeks, and my feet refused to sustain me: Lord Orville, hastily rising, supported me to a chair, upon which I sunk, almost lifeless.
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