The Life and Legacy of Harriette Wilson. Harriette Wilson
said Tom; "because you look so humble, and so amiable; but"—recollecting himself—"this is not exactly the embassy I came upon. Have you a mind to give Lorne an agreeable surprise?"
"I don't know."
"Upon my honour I believe he is downright in love with you."
"Well?"
"Come into a hackney-coach with me, and we will drive down to the Tennis Court, in the Haymarket."
"Is the duke there?"
"Yes."
"But at all events, I will not trust myself in a hackney-coach with you."
"There was a time," said poor Tom Sheridan, with much drollery of expression, "there was a time—but now!" and he shook his handsome head with comic gravity, "but now! you may drive with me from here to St. Paul's in the most perfect safety. I will tell you a secret," added he, and he fixed his fine dark eye on my face while he spoke, in a tone, half merry, half desponding, "I am dying; but nobody knows it yet!"
I was very much affected by his manner of saying this.
"My dear Mr. Sheridan," said I, with earnest warmth, "you have accused me of being vain of the little beauty God has given me. Now I would give it all, or upon my word I think I would, to obtain the certainty, that you would from this hour refrain from such excesses as are destroying you."
"Did you see me play the methodist parson, in a tub, at Mrs. Beaumont's masquerade last Thursday?" said Tom, with affected levity.
"You may laugh as you please," said I, "at a little fool like me pretending to preach to you, yet I am sensible enough to admire you, and quite feeling enough to regret your time so misspent, your brilliant talents so misapplied."
"Bravo! Bravo!" Tom reiterated, "what a funny little girl you are! Pray Miss, how is your time spent?"
"Not in drinking brandy," I replied.
"And how might your talent be applied, Ma'am?"
"Have not I just given you a specimen, in the shape of a handsome quotation?"
"My good little girl, it is in the blood, and I can't help it—and, if I could, it is too late now. I'm dying, I tell you. I know not if my poor father's physician was as eloquent as you are; but he did his best to turn him from drinking. Among other things, he declared to him one day, that the brandy, Arquebusade, and Eau de Cologne, he swallowed, would burn off the coat of his stomach. 'Then,' said my father, 'my stomach must digest in its waistcoat; for I cannot help it.'"
"Indeed, I am very sorry for you," I replied: and I hope he believed me: for he pressed my hand hastily, and I think I saw a tear glisten in his bright, dark eye.
"Shall I tell Lorne," said poor Tom, with an effort to recover his usual gaiety, "that you will write to him, or will you come to the Tennis-court?"
"Neither," answered I, "but you may tell his lordship, that, of course, I am not angry, since I am led to believe he had no intention to humble nor make a fool of me."
"Nothing more?" inquired Tom.
"Nothing," I replied, "for his lordship."
"And what for me?" said Tom.
"You! what do you want?"
"A kiss!" he said.
"Not I, indeed!"
"Be it so then; and yet you and I may never meet again on this earth, and just now I thought you felt some interest about me"; and he was going away.
"So I do, dear Tom Sheridan!" said I, detaining him; for I saw death had fixed his stamp on poor Sheridan's handsome face. "You know I have a very warm and feeling heart, and taste enough to admire and like you; but why is this to be our last meeting?"
"I must go to the Mediterranean"; poor Sheridan continued, putting his hand to his chest, and coughing.
"To die!" thought I, as I looked on his sunk, but still very expressive, dark eyes.
"Then God bless you!" said I, first kissing his hand, and then, though somewhat timidly, leaning my face towards him. He parted my hair, and kissed my forehead, my eyes, and my lips.
"If I do come back," said he, forcing a languid smile, "mind let me find you married, and rich enough to lend me an occasional hundred pounds or two." He then kissed his hand gracefully, and was out of sight in an instant.
I never saw him again!
CHAPTER II
The next morning my maid brought me a little note from Argyle to say that he had been waiting about my door an hour, having learned my address from poor Sheridan, and that, seeing the servant in the street, he could not help making an attempt to induce me to go out and walk with him. I looked out of window, saw Argyle, ran for my hat and cloak, and joined him in an instant.
"Am I forgiven?" said Argyle with gentle eagerness.
"Oh yes," returned I, "long ago, but that will do you no good, for I really am treating Frederick Lamb very ill, and therefore must not walk with you again."
"Why not?" Argyle inquired. "Apropos," he added, "you told Frederick that I walked about the turnpike looking for you, and that, no doubt, to make him laugh at me?"
"No, not for that; but I never could deceive any man. I have told him the whole story of our becoming acquainted, and he allows me to walk with you. It is I who think it wrong, not Frederick."
"That is to say, you think me a bore," said Argyle, reddening with pique and disappointment.
"And suppose I loved you?" I asked; "still I am engaged to Frederick Lamb, who trusts me, and——"
"If," interrupted Argyle, "it were possible you did love me, Frederick Lamb would be forgotten: but, though you did not love me, you must promise to try and do so some day or other. You don't know how much I have fixed my heart on it."
These sentimental walks continued more than a month. One evening we walked rather later than usual. It grew dark. In a moment of ungovernable passion, Argyle's ardour frightened me. Not that I was insensible to it: so much the contrary, that I felt certain another meeting must decide my fate. Still I was offended at what I conceived showed such a want of respect. The duke became humble. There is a charm in the humility of a lover who has offended. The charm is so great that we like to prolong it. In spite of all he could say I left him in anger. The next morning I received the following note:
"If you see me waiting about your door to-morrow morning, do not fancy I am looking for you: but for your pretty housemaid."
I did see him from a sly corner of my window; but I resisted all my desires and remained concealed. "I dare not see him again," thought I, "for I cannot be so very profligate, knowing and feeling as I do, how impossible it will be to refuse him anything, if we meet again. I cannot treat Fred Lamb in this manner! besides I should be afraid to tell him of it, he would perhaps kill me!
"But then, poor, dear Lorne! to return his kisses, as I did last night, and afterwards be so very severe on him, for a passion which it seemed so out of his power to control!
"Nevertheless we must part now, or never; so I'll write and take my leave of him kindly." This was my letter:
"At the first I was afraid I should love you, and, but for Fred Lamb having requested me to get you up to Somers-town after I had declined meeting you, I had been happy: now the idea makes me miserable. Still it must be so. I am naturally affectionate. Habit attaches me to Fred Lamb. I cannot deceive him or acquaint him with what will cause him to cut me, in anger and for ever. We may not then meet again Lorne, as hitherto: for now we could not be merely friends: lovers we must be hereafter, or nothing. I have never loved any man in my life before, and yet, dear Lorne, you see we must part. I venture to send you the enclosed thick lock of my hair; because you have been