The Collected Works of Frances Burney (Illustrated Edition). Frances Burney
itself under the pressure of internal grief! — struggling to hide what it should seek to participate! — But go, my dear, go to your own room; we both want composure, and we will talk of this matter some other time.”
“Oh, Sir,” cried I, penetrated to the soul, “bid me not leave you! — think me not so lost to feeling, to gratitude —”
“Not a word of that,” interrupted he: “it pains me you should think upon that subject; pains me you should ever remember that you have not a natural, an hereditary right to every thing within my power. I meant not to affect you thus — I hoped to have soothed you! — but my anxiety betrayed me to an urgency that has distressed you. Comfort yourself, my love; and doubt not but that time will stand your friend, and all will end well.”
I burst into tears: with difficulty had I so long restrained them; for my heart, while it glowed with tenderness and gratitude, was oppressed with a sense of its own unworthiness. “You are all, all goodness!” cried I, in a voice scarce audible; “little as I deserve — unable as I am to repay, such kindness — yet my whole soul feels — thanks you for it!”
“My dearest child,” cried he, “I cannot bear to see thy tears; — for my sake dry them: such a sight is too much for me: think of that, Evelina, and take comfort, I charge thee!”
“Say then,” cried I, kneeling at his feet, “say then that you forgive me! that you pardon my reserve — that you will again suffer me to tell you my most secret thoughts, and rely upon my promise never more to forfeit your confidence! — my father! — my protector! — my ever-honoured — ever-loved — my best and only friend! — say you forgive your Evelina, and she will study better to deserve your goodness!”
He raised, he embraced me: he called me his sole joy, his only earthly hope, and the child of his bosom! He folded me to his heart; and, while I wept from the fulness of mine, with words of sweetest kindness and consolation, he soothed and tranquillised me.
Dear to my remembrance will ever be that moment when, banishing the reserve I had so foolishly planned, and so painfully supported, I was restored to the confidence of the best of men!
When at length we were again quietly and composedly seated by each other, and Mr. Villars waited for the explanation I had begged him to hear, I found myself extremely embarrassed how to introduce the subject which must lead to it. He saw my distress; and with a kind of benevolent pleasantry, asked me if I would let him guess any more? I assented in silence.
“Shall I, then, go back to where I left off?”
“If — if you please; — I believe so — ” said I, stammering.
“Well, then, my love, I think I was speaking of the regret it was natural you should feel upon quitting those from whom you had received civility and kindness, with so little certainty of ever seeing them again, or being able to return their good offices. These are circumstances that afford but melancholy reflections to young minds; and the affectionate disposition of my Evelina, open to all social feelings, must be hurt more than usual by such considerations. — You are silent, my dear. Shall I name those whom I think most worthy the regret I speak of? We shall then see if our opinions coincide.”
Still I said nothing, and he continued.
“In your London journal, nobody appears in a more amiable, a more respectable light than Lord Orville; and perhaps —”
“I knew what you would say,” cried I, hastily, “and I have long feared where your suspicions would fall; but indeed, Sir, you are mistaken: I hate Lord Orville — he is the last man in the world in whose favour I should be prejudiced.”
I stopped; for Mr. Villars looked at me with such infinite surprise, that my own warmth made me blush.
“You hate Lord Orville!” repeated he.
I could make no answer; but took from my pocket-book the letter, and giving it to him, “See, Sir,” said I, “how differently the same man can talk and write!”
He read it three times before he spoke; and then said, “I am so much astonished, that I know not what I read. When had you this letter?”
I told him. Again he read it, and, after considering its contents some time, said, “I can form but one conjecture concerning this most extraordinary performance: he must certainly have been intoxicated when he wrote it.”
“Lord Orville intoxicated!” repeated I: “once I thought him a stranger to all intemperance; — but it is very possible, for I can believe any thing now.”
“That a man who had behaved with so strict a regard to delicacy,” continued Mr. Villars, “and who, as far as occasion had allowed, manifested sentiments the most honourable, should thus insolently, thus wantonly, insult a modest young woman, in his perfect senses, I cannot think possible. But, my dear, you should have inclosed this letter in an empty cover, and have returned it to him again: such a resentment would at once have become your character, and have given him an opportunity, in some measure, of clearing his own. He could not well have read this letter the next morning without being sensible of the impropriety of having written it.”
Oh, Maria! why had I not this thought? I might then have received some apology; the mortification would then have been his, not mine. It is true, he could not have reinstated himself so highly in my opinion as I had once ignorantly placed him, since the conviction of such intemperance would have levelled him with the rest of his imperfect race; yet my humbled pride might have been consoled by his acknowledgments.
But why should I allow myself to be humbled by a man who can suffer his reason to be thus abjectly debased, when I am exalted by one who knows no vice, and scarcely a failing, but by hearsay? To think of his kindness, and reflect upon his praises, might animate and comfort me even in the midst of affliction. “Your indignation,” said he, “is the result of virtue; you fancied Lord Orville was without fault — he had the appearance of infinite worthiness, and you supposed his character accorded with appearance: guileless yourself, how could you prepare against the duplicity of another? Your disappointment has but been proportioned to your expectations, and you have chiefly owed its severity to the innocence which hid its approach.”
I will bid these words dwell ever in my memory, and they shall cheer, comfort, and enliven me! This conversation, though extremely affecting to me at the time it passed, has relieved my mind from much anxiety. Concealment, my dear Maria, is the foe of tranquillity: however I may err in future, I will never be disingenuous in acknowledging my errors. To you and to Mr. Villars I vow an unremitting confidence.
And yet, though I am more at ease, I am far from well: I have been some time writing this letter; but I hope I shall send you soon a more cheerful one.
Adieu, my sweet friend. I intreat you not to acquaint even your dear mother with this affair; Lord Orville is a favourite with her, and why should I publish that he deserves not that honour?
LETTER 61
EVELINA IN CONTINUATION
Bristol Hotwells, August 28th.
You will be again surprised, my dear Maria, at seeing whence I date my letter: but I have been very ill, and Mr. Villars was so much alarmed, that he not only insisted upon my accompanying Mrs. Selwyn hither, but earnestly desired she would hasten her intended journey.
We travelled very slowly, and I did not find myself so much fatigued as I expected. We are situated upon a most delightful spot; the prospect is beautiful, the air pure, and the weather very favourable to invalids. I am already better, and I doubt not but I shall soon be well; as well, in regard to mere health, as I wish to be.
I cannot express the reluctance with which I parted from my revered Mr. Villars: it was not like that parting which, last April, preceded my journey to Howard Grove, when, all expectation and hope, though I wept, I rejoiced, and, though I sincerely grieved to leave him, I yet wished