The Memoirs of Harriette Wilson, Volumes One and Two. Harriette Wilson
than my stranger! and yet" (the stranger turned his head towards our side of the house)—"Oh!" continued I, taking hold of Fanny's hand, in a fit of rapture, "it is he! only his hat, till now, concealed that beautiful head of hair."
"Where? where?" cried out they both at once.
"Oh! that some one would come into our box now and tell us who he is!" I exclaimed.
"How provoking you are," said Julia. "Why do not you point out the man to us?"
"It is that man, who is laughing.—Oh! I had no idea that his teeth were so very beautiful!"
"Dear me, how tiresome," observed Fanny, quietly. "If you will not tell us which is your man let us talk of something else."
"He is there," replied I, "next to Lady Foley's box, leaning on his arm."
Julia put her glass to her eye as usual; being remarkably short-sighted she could distinguish nothing without it.
"I know him," said Julia, after fixing him for some time.
"Not much?" I observed, almost breathless. "Did you ever speak to him?"
"I have met him in society, when I was a girl," continued Julia; "but I was intimate with a girl, to whom, when young, he proposed. Her wedding clothes were made; she used to sleep in my room, with his picture round her neck. She adored him beyond all that could be imagined of love and devotion, and within a few days of their proposed marriage he declared off. His excuse was that his father refused his consent."
"For many years," continued Julia, "my friend's sufferings were severe; her parents trembled for her reason. No one was permitted to name her former lover in her presence. She is now Lady Conyngham."
"And his name?" said I.
"Lord Ponsonby, who is supposed to be the handsomest man in England: but he must now be forty, if not more," replied Julia.
"I wish he were sixty," I answered. "As it is, I have no chance: but indeed I never thought I had. He is a sort of man I think I could be wicked enough to say my prayers to. I could live in his happiness only without his knowing me. I could wait for hours near his house for the chance of seeing him pass or hearing his voice."
Fanny laughed outright.
Julia only exclaimed, "Well done, Harriette! You are more romantic than ever I was at your age, and I thought that was impossible."
"You did not love Lord Ponsonby," retorted I.
"True," said Julia: "badinage apart, Ponsonby is, as I have always been told, very near perfection. But what chance can you have? He is married to the loveliest creature on earth—the youngest daughter of Lord Jersey."
"I knew very well," sighed I despondingly, "before I heard of his marriage, that I should never be anything to him."
"I will tell you where he lives," said Julia. "It is in Curzon Street, May Fair."
"Well then," thought I, "at least when he passes me, I shall not, as yesterday, fancy I am looking at him for the last time."
Upon the whole my spirits were violently elated this evening. Lord Ponsonby I believe did not perceive me. I was most anxious, yet afraid, to see his wife.
"I cannot find her box," observed Julia, "else I should know her immediately."
We now lost sight of his lordship for some time, he having left the box I first saw him in. I perceived him for an instant afterwards, but missed him altogether before the opera was over.
"I am glad I have not seen his wife," said I, after we were seated in the carriage. "I hope I shall never see her as long as I live."
I resolved now to make no kind of advances to become acquainted with Lord Ponsonby; but on the very next evening I indulged myself in passing his house at least fifty times. I saw and examined the countenances of his footmen and the colour of his window-curtains: even the knocker of his door escaped not my veneration, since Lord Ponsonby must have touched it so often. My very nature seemed now to have undergone a change. I began to dislike society, and considered the unfortunate situation I had fallen into with horror; because I fancied Lord Ponsonby would despise me. I often reflected whether there might yet be some mighty virtue in my power, some sacrifice of self, some exertion of energy, by which I might, one day, deserve to be respected, or to have my memory respected by Lord Ponsonby after I was dead.
The fact is, I really now lived but in his sight, and I only met him once or twice in a week, to see him pass me without notice, At last I began to believe he really did see me in the park with pleasure, when by any accident late in the evening, I happened to be alone and the park empty. Once he rode behind me to my very door, and passed it, without seeming to look at me: the dread of being by him accused of boldness ever prevented my observation.
This day, on entering my house, I mounted hastily up into my garret, and got upon the leads, there to watch if Lord Ponsonby turned back, or whether he had merely followed me by accident on his way somewhere else. He rode on almost as far as I could see, and then turned back again, and galloped hastily by my door as though afraid of being observed by me.
"Suppose he were to love me!" thought I, and the idea caused my heart to beat wildly. I would not dwell upon it. It was ridiculous. It would only expose me to after-disappointment. What was I, that Lord Ponsonby should think about me? What could I ever be to him? Still there was no reason which I could discover, why I might not love Lord Ponsonby. I was made for love, and I looked for no return. I should have liked him to have been assured that for the rest of his life mine was devoted to him. In short, though I scarcely ventured to admit it, hope did begin to predominate. I was young, and my wishes had hitherto rarely been suppressed by disappointment.
My reflections were interrupted by my servant, who brought me a letter from George Brummell, full of nonsensical vows and professions. "When," he wrote, "beautiful Harriette, will you admit me into your house? Why so obstinately refuse my visits? Tell me, I do entreat you, when I may but throw myself at your feet without fear of derision from a public homage on the pavement, or dislocation from the passing hackney coaches?" The rest I have forgotten.
Wellington called on me the next morning before I had finished my breakfast. I tried him on every subject I could muster. On all, he was most impenetrably taciturn. At last he started an original idea of his own; actual copyright, as Stockdale would call it.
"I wonder you do not get married, Harriette!"
(By-the-bye, ignorant people are always wondering.)
"Why so?"
Wellington, however, gives no reason for anything unconnected with fighting, at least since the Convention of Cintra, and he therefore again became silent. Another burst of attic sentiment blazed forth.
"I was thinking of you last night, after I got into bed," resumed Wellington.
"How very polite to the duchess," I observed. "Apropos to marriage, duke, how do you like it?"
Wellington, who seems to make a point of never answering one, continued, "I was thinking—I was thinking that you will get into some scrape, when I go to Spain."
"Nothing so serious as marriage neither, I hope!"
"I must come again to-morrow, to give you a little advice," continued Wellington.
"Oh, let us have it all out now, and have done with it."
"I cannot," said Wellington, putting on his gloves, and taking a hasty leave of me.
"I am glad he is off," thought I, "for this is indeed very uphill work. This is worse than Lord Craven."
As soon as he was gone, I hastened to Curzon Street. The window-shutters of Lord Ponsonby's house were all closed. How disappointed and low-spirited I felt at the idea that his lordship had left town! Suspense was insufferable; so I ventured to send my servant to inquire when the family were expected