LETTER XIII. Miss HARRIOT BEAUCLERK to Miss LOUISA MILDMAY.

O! my sweet friend, my dearest Louisa, are our sorrows never to have an end; and is every day that should mitigate the severity of our for­tune, to bring us nothing but an aggra­vation of distress! Your poor brother—I cannot keep it from you—was a few hours ago brought to us desperately [Page 2] wounded by that barbarous villain Harold, with whom he accidentally met at the Crown in Reading; and there, with more courage than discretion called to an account for his infamous be­haviour to the most beautiful and most worthy of her sex. Pistols were the cursed weapons they fought with, and your brother received a shot a little above the groin; the ball was extracted by an eminent surgeon at Reading, and the colonel was brought home in a litter, as the physicians judged it better to remove him even such a number of miles, than to let him remain in any place where he could not have proper accommodations.

Your poor mother, when she saw him borne in, fainted away, and was imme­diately removed to her own apartment; where, after applying the necessary re­storatives, we happily recovered her; [Page 3] she then told me that this was nothing more than what she expected, and that she was the less affected at the shock as she had rendered it continually familiar to her imagination—"Yet, Miss Beauclerk," continued the venerable lady, ‘it is a severe stroke, though an expected one; but God's will be done.’ A large tear then rolled down her fine face, which she endeavoured to restrain, as she saw how much I was touched with the general misfortune; after this, she sent for the surgeon, and doctor, who attended the colonel, from Reading, and begged they would give her their candid opinion of his situation.— ‘Don't be afraid to tell me gentlemen,’ says she, endeavouring at a smile; ‘for, though I have all the tenderness of a mother, I hope I also possess the resignation of a Christian.’ The gentlemen looked at one another in admiration both of her piety and her fortitude, and [Page 4] very freely owned that the colonel was in some danger; but that they were ne­vertheless in hopes, if they could pre­vent a fever, to see him tolerably re­covered in a little time. The gentlemen then preparing to withdraw, I whispered the doctor to feel her own pulse, which he did in a very respectful manner, and advised her to loose a few ounces of blood: she assented to the motion; and the doctor at going out gave me a look of benignity for my recollection, that indicated a goodness of heart in himself, which has raised him not a little in my estimation. After your mother had been bled, we prevailed upon her to lye down, and I left her just now in a sweet doze, which I flatter myself will do her a world of benefit.

As my attention at your brother's first coming in was called off by your mo­ther's distress, I sent for Butler, his Irish [Page 5] servant, who is principally employed about his person, to be informed of par­ticulars—The poor fellow, though deep­ly affected for his master's accident, told me he should ever love and honour his old master, for bearing up so like a man against the stroke of misfortune—"Madam," says he, ‘instead of ex­claiming, as the generality of father's would have done on such an occasion, and censuring the rashness of his son, he took hold of my master's hand, kissed it with an air of inconceiveable satisfaction, and praised him for the attention which he had shewn to the honour of his family: the only regret he testified, was at hearing that the person who had injured his honour was not hurt in the engagement; for, had he fallen, says my old master, that would have been a great satisfac­tion—And so it would you know madam,’ continued the honest Hi­bernian, [Page 6] — ‘The honour of a good family is a very nice affair; I am come of as good a family myself as any in Ireland, and know how to feel for such a misfortune as has happened to my master's.’

Though I could not help smiling at the egotism of poor Butler, I nevertheless desired him to answer my questions, and not teaze me with his reflections: he therefore proceeded to inform me that your father and brother were both more than ever incensed against Harold, and that your brother had solemnly swore to call him to a second account the moment he recovered from the pre­sent accident; that your father, however, had been forced out of the room from the colonel, as talking did much injury to the latter; and that the old gentleman, upon withdrawing, said something about altering his will; Butler added, that [Page 7] your brother desired a visit from me above all things, and he believed would request a favour of that kind if he was any way better in the morning.

You conjure me by all our friendship, my dearest Louisa, to give you a minute account of every thing; to mitigate no description, and to conceal no distress; I obey you, though against my inclina­nation, as I know how a sensibility like your's must be wounded by a repetition of some circumstances; but my sweet, my ever amiable friend, exert your ut­most resolution, and prepare to meet those evils with fortitude, which are impossible to be avoided—True mag­nanimity is never seen till the day of distress, and those have naturally the noblest minds who make the firmest stand against affliction.

[Page 8]From some things which have escaped your brother since I wrote the foregoing part of this letter, I have reason to imagine that Sir Robert Harold was not altogether so much in fault, in the late rencounter, as we were inclined to imagine: colonel Mildmay himself acknowledges, that he used every provocation before he could prevail upon the baronet to engage; and he even intimates, that Sir Robert was actually going to town with an intention of throwing himself at your feet, and imploring your forgiveness—If this was the case, it was certainly rash in the colonel to carry matters to such an ex­tremity; he ought to consider that the happiness of more people than one is dependent upon his welfare, and that the hazarding of his life may increase the general misfortune, but can never have the smallest tendency to remove it: but he has too nice a sensibility for his own ease, and is frequently running [Page 9] into real ills to avoid imaginary mis­fortunes. You know, my dear, my par­tiality for your brother; and you also know that, on the present occasion, pru­dence will not allow me to give such a loose to my feelings as I should naturally shew, were we on such a footing as you have frequently wished us—Perhaps, it may be something of this very parti­ality which induces me to wish, that, in the course of the recent transaction, he had made use of a little less spirit, and a little more understanding. You cannot conceive, my dearest Louisa, how it distresses me to think of his situation, to find myself in the same house with him, and yet to be under a necessity of seeming only a friendly partaker in the common calamity—This cruel con­straint is too much, and I pine, I sicken, I die, for an interview with him, though I am sensible such a circumstance in his present condition must fill me with the [Page 10] most poignant affliction; hitherto he has never said a single syllable that could furnish a reasonable hope of his consi­dering me with any tenderness of pre­possession; but he has nevertheless been studious to gain my good opinion, though he has declined to solicit for my love; and I have a strong notion that he intends to be particular the very first opportunity: my heart at least interprets things in that sense, and who knows—But my sweet Louisa forgive me; how could I possibly indulge the most distant thought of happiness, while you are sinking under the deepest distress, and while the life of the dear youth is at stake, on whom my whole happiness so materially depends! O! Louisa, excuse the woman at my heart, which, in spite of my best efforts, would talk about your brother, though the share which you know I partake in his danger must add in a very considerable [Page 11] degree to your anxiety. If possible, I will forbear to mention him with regard, that I may avoid wounding so nice a part of your sensibility, since I am con­scious with what a generous concern you feel for your Harriot, and am but too apprehensive that this concern will lead you into some self accusations equally injurious to the recovery of your own peace, and the stability of her friendship.

In my last, I told you that my mo­ther, upon hearing what an unexpected cloud had overcast the happiness of your family, gave me permission to stay for a few days with her dear Mrs. Mildmay, tenderly as well as wisely considering, that, in the present state of things, her venerable friend would naturally want somebody to sooth the anguish of her mind, who was really interested in her distress. You cannot conceive how kind­ly the worthy lady, your mother, has [Page 12] received this little instance of our attach­ment—She wept over me when I men­tioned my design to remain at Mildmay Hall till my attendance became unneces­sary; and, ardently pressing me to her bosom, condescended to kiss my cheek, and called me her true Harriot, her other Louisa—Ever since she has ho­noured me with a more than common share of her confidence; is desirous of being alone with me upon every occa­sion; and you may easily conjecture, my ever amiable girl, what subject princi­pally engrosses our conversation.

Just this moment she sent for me to her bedside: having been some minutes awake, and seeing my fingers marked with ink—"I suppose, my love," says she, ‘you have been writing to poor Louisa.’ I replied in the affirmative, and insinuated what a consolation it would be to you, if you were honoured [Page 13] with her remembrance. ‘My dear Miss Beauclerk,’ returned she, ‘have not I already told you, that she is still my child; that she even may write to me if she pleases, and that I shall always consider her unhappy fall with a much greater share of pity than re­sentment? To be candid with you, my obliging love,’ continued the dear lady, ‘I am more to be blamed for leaving Sir Robert Harold and Louisa so frequently together, than either is for abusing the confidence which I reposed in their discretion. Young people, where they tenderly love each other, and where a day is set apart for their marriage, are very dangerous companions; the woman loses all her fear, and the man all his veneration; they become insensibly more and more familiar, till their imaginations are intensely heated, and their recollection totally lost—In such [Page 14] a situation, the consequence is but too obvious; the woman wakes into di­straction, and the man into doubt or disgust—She trembles for his con­stancy, and he fears for her virtue; recriminations naturally ensue, and they either go to the altar with senti­ments very little calculated to preserve their future felicity, or break off in such a manner as draws a general disgrace upon the woman and her fa­mily. O! Miss Beauclerk, why did'nt I consider this matter with propri­ety, when such a consideration would have been essential to my happiness! Why would I expose the darling of my heart to dangers which it was scarcely possible for her to avoid; or ensnare the inexperience of my child with unecessary temptations—But, alas, because she was my child, I must foolishly suppose her above the reach of human infirmities, and be guilty [Page 15] of an inattention in my own conduct, which I would have severely censured in the mother of any body else. O! my sweet Louisa, your doating mo­ther's extravagant fondness has been the cause of all our calamities; and your indiscretion was nothing more than the natural result of her mistaken partiality.’

In this manner, my beautiful friend, did the generous minded lady proceed, while my tears could only testify the warmth of my approbation. She was pleased to see me touched; and, more than once kissing away the drops from my cheeks, declared she was never sorry to see a young lady miserable at a scene of distress, because those only could con­tinue unmov'd, who were utterly desti­tute of humanity and understanding—Your father came in about this time; and seeing both our eyes red, assigned, [Page 16] in the fury of his resentment, a very dif­ferent cause from the real one.— ‘What do you cry for, my dear?’ says he to your venerable mother, ‘If the villain, who has brought all this affliction upon our heads is not yet sacrificed, be satisfied that justice shall overtake him in the end; for I have a gallant boy still living, who shall pursue him with unceasing vengeance till he has washed away the disgrace of our family in his blood: O! had the inhospitable mon­ster but fallen to day, how light should I have made of my son's misfortune; but he shall yet feel me—By the great God of heaven and earth he shall; and so, my dear, be pacified.’

"O! Mr. Mildmay," replied your mother, ‘too much blood has been spilled already; and, if something which I have casually heard from Miss Beauclerk, of Sir Robert's repentance, [Page 17] be true, I must say that it would be much better to think of an accom­modation than to expose ourselves to any additional share of distress; lady Haversham is an excellent woman, and I have strong reason to imagine, that her influence will have every weight we could wish with the thoughtless young man, her brother; suffer me, therefore, my dear, to make an enquiry into the foundation of Miss Beauclerk's intelligence, that if we find—’

"Find what, madam!" (interrupted your father, with an uncommon degree of vehemence) ‘You would not surely have the dishonour of your family pass unpunished, nor think of receiv­ing a villain as your son-in-law, who has covered you with the most infa­mous disgrace! Would you give your daughter to a ruffian, who has possibly [Page 18] murdered your son; or would you basely beg of lady Haversham to speak a good word for us to her scoundrel of a brother? Are we reduced at once so low as to kneel where we have been barbarously injured; and must we think of supplicating a monster for compassion, whose hands have been equally steeped in our reputation and our blood? Fie, Mrs. Mildmay, fie! this is a language unworthy both of your character and your descent; and could I find a thought of so disho­nourable a nature rising in my bosom, I should do instant justice on the traytor, and stab it to the heart.’

Your mother made no reply to this but by a shower of tears; which your father being utterly unable to withstand, he flew out of the room, leaving me to give the dear lady what consolation I could, which in fact was but very [Page 19] trifling, as I stood in no little need of consolation myself. Such, my sweet friend, is the state of matters at Mild­may Hall. Your brother, though his wounds pain him considerably, slept a full hour this evening, so Butler just now acquainted me, adding, that he and the surgeon were to sit up all night with him; and assuring me that there should be no want of attendance on ei­ther of their parts.—"As for myself," says Butler, ‘I shall have but little in­clination to sleep while my poor master continues in any danger; and as for the surgeon, I will take care that he shall wake whenever there is the smallest necessity for his assistance.’ So saying, he gave a significant look, as if he should be angry with the gentleman in case of any neglect, and marched off to the housekeeper for some old linen to cut up in bandages. You desired me, at the conclusion of your letter, to inform [Page 20] you, whether there is any other visitor at the Hall—It is with pleasure I can acquaint you that there is not. The morning after your departure, messen­gers were sent to every body invited, but myself, to let them know that an unexpected circumstance had happened, which must delay the wedding for some time; but that they should receive early intelligence against the day of celebra­tion. And now, my dearest Louisa, let me again insist that you will bear up with all your fortitude against the hand of adversity—Fortune, believe me, will yet wear a propitious countenance, and we shall all experience a degree of happi­ness in proportion to the severity of our present distress. Your mother, my sweet girl, on her reverend knees, with stream­ing eyes, and uplifted hands, is this moment blessing you; such a woman's prayers to the Throne of Mercy must be effectual.—Providence looks with [Page 21] delight upon all parental supplications; but where a parent is peculiarly distin­guished for every virtue, the petition is sanctified into a kind of claim, and is no sooner pronounced than rewarded. Good night, sister of my soul, my ever amiable Louisa. By the next post you shall hear from me again, and I hope infinitely more to your satisfaction.

LETTER XIV. Miss MILDMAY to her Mother.

IF I have yet delayed paying my humblest duty to my ever revered mama; if I have yet denied myself the unspeakable satisfaction of approaching her by letter, it was neither from a want of the deepest respect, nor the strongest inclination.—But, alas! covered with confusion and dishonour, sinking be­neath a consciousness of my guilt, and knowing myself utterly unworthy of her smallest consideration, I wanted courage to address her; and even blush­ed at my presumption, when I supposed it might be possible for her to remem­ber a miserable wretch like me, with any distant traces of pity or affection—And, O! my mama, did you really, on your reverend knees, condescend to beg [Page 23] a blessing for your unfortunate daughter; did you really, with streaming eyes, im­plore the Throne of Mercy in my fa­vour; and extend your benignant hands to pluck down comfort on my head? Could you pray for the restoration of her peace who has so barbarously de­stroyed your happiness; and wish a length of prosperous years to an unna­tural monster, whose infamy has shorten­ed your own date of days, and blackened the little remnant with affliction and disgrace?—O! madam, where shall I hide myself from this excess of goodness!—Where shall I take refuge from this unbounded amplitude of generosity! The severity of reproach I could have borne, because it is deserved; and I could have withstood the shock of in­dignation, because it is merited. But this astonishing tenderness is insupport­able—it overcomes—it destroys me—and at this moment I am forced to [Page 24] make a full pause, being unable to bear up against the conflict of my own heart, which is no less torn with the keenness of my gratitude, than tortured by the pungency of my remorse.

A few drops of hartshorn having somewhat relieved a faintingness that came over me just then, I now endeavour to resume my letter, though totally at a loss in what manner to proceed: for, alas! my dear mama, can I possibly mention any subject that will not aggra­vate the nature of my guilt, and add to the greatness of your affliction? If I ask after my ever honoured father, the pangs with which I have filled his vene­rable bosom immediately occur—If I mention the best beloved and noblest of brothers, I find him weltering in blood on my account; and if I even address myself to you, who have treated me with such an infinite degree of un­exampled [Page 25] generosity, do I not find you languishing on the bed of sickness, and drooping at the infamy of a daughter, who should have been the happy source of your consolation?—O! my dear mama, revoke your gracious, your inesti­mable blessing—Renounce me—curse me—and detest me; for I am detestable in my own eyes, and am ready to commit some instant act of desperation, when I recollect, what ruin I have brought upon you all—What a dreadful return have I made for all your unbounded tenderness and affection! Yet, madam, presumptuous as it must be in me to name either you, my father, or my bro­ther, after what has past, still I must take the liberty of offering up my prayers for the recovery of your peace; still must I pray for the re-establishment of my brother's health, who is so great an ornament to the family; if the [Page 26] goodness of that God, who sees into the bottom of my afflictions, would be pleased to restore him, and to take me speedily out of the world, I should hope it was yet possible for you to be happy together, notwithstanding the misconduct of a guilty wretch, who is now so just an object of your contempt and detestation.

The good lady Haversham, ever since my arrival in town, has been a constant visitor at Mrs. Darnel's, and tries by every means in her power to alleviate the poignancy of my distress—She la­ments the behaviour of her brother with the sincerest concern, and has shewn me some letters from him, which give me reason to think he is very sorry for it himself, and is desirous of taking every possible step to effect a reconcilia­tion; but that, madam, is a matter not to be thought of now—He has shewn [Page 27] himself unworthy of being a son to you and my papa; and, for any thing that should depend on my determination, could I gain the world by a union with him, or, what is more, could I recover my lost peace of mind, I should spurn him without hesitation, and think it an increase of my present infamy to retain him a moment in my remembrance—No, madam, though I have disgraced my family by the madness of one guilty moment, my mind is yet incapable of a premeditated baseness; and would scorn to vow duty and obedience, where it cannot look without an equal mixture of abhorrence and contempt. You do not know, my dear mama, how very scandalous a part he has acted. You do not know with how elaborate a meanness, with how ingenious a little­ness, he has behaved in the course of this unfortunate transaction; but Miss Beau­clerk, in a few days, will be able to [Page 28] make you acquainted with the minutest circumstance. I am writing out the whole melancholy story at her request; and I know it will give your generous bosom some satisfaction to find, that though I am guilty, I have not by any subsequent action rendered myself des­picable.

Lady Haversham, madam, was this moment here; she came to me in an absolute state of distraction, so that it was a full hour before Mrs. Darnel and I could restore her to any tollerable share of tranquility—She had a letter in her hand directed to Mr. Melmoth, of whom you heard her brother speak so very highly when he was down in the country. This letter, it seems, was a circumstantial account of the unhappy quarrel between my brother and Sir Ro­bert; from which we learn, that the worthless man was coming after me in [Page 29] a great hurry to London, to throw him­self at my feet, and to implore my for­giveness for his barbarous behaviour. O! that my brother had not seen him at Reading; his life had then been en­tirely out of a danger; and I should have the pleasure at least of mortifying his cruel antagonist with a repulse.

The countess, when she came a little to herself, entered into a long conversa­tion with me about the impropriety of refusing her brother, since he was now brought to so happy a conviction of his errors, and was attached to me still with so unabating an ardency of affection— ‘I am sure, my dear Louisa,’ argued she, ‘notwithstanding you have very great cause for being offended with him, you have not yet erased him from your heart; and it would, of consequence, be punishing yourself, not to think of forgiving him in the end.’ I begged, [Page 30] at last, that her ladyship would say no more on the subject; that it pained me excessively, and that I could never hear her brother's name without reflecting on my own disgrace, and the general dishonour of my family: she then oblig­ingly waved the discourse; but said, that she and Mr. Melmoth were to set off for Mildmay Hall in the morning; and that she hoped to find you and my papa more propitious to her entreaties, than what the justice of my resentment would at present suffer me to be; I then only said, that I had disobliged my papa and mama too much not to wish for some opportunity of making an at­tonement; but that the circumstance she hinted at was a method, which I was pretty sure would not meet with their approbation: however, she left me, after making some professions of a nature so extremely generous, yet deli­cate, that I could not help lamenting, [Page 31] after her departure, to find so very worthless a man as her brother engrossed so great a share of her affection. For my own part, I once loved him, once tenderly loved him; but why do I torture my recollection with his name; his baseness has cured me of that passion, and I am now alive to nothing but the sense of my dishonour, and the afflictions of my family.

That these afflictions may be speedily removed, my dearest mama, is my in­cessant prayer; life has now no other charm but the hope of seeing your happiness, the happiness of my papa, and the happiness of my brother, re­established; could I once see these desir­able events, I should sink contented into my grave; for, though I shall never know a moment's peace in this world, I shall not enter upon the next with any satisfaction, if I have but the smallest [Page 32] cause to think that you remember me with regret. Do not, therefore, my ever­to-be-revered mama, suffer yourself to feel any uneasiness on my account. Do not let the recollection of a guilty creature like me prey upon your health, and render the family misfortune irre­parable. My dear brother, madam, de­serves all your tenderness; and, could a union be brought about between him and my amiable Miss Beauclerk, she would supply every thing which I once endeavoured to be—before I was un­worthy to be called your dutiful daughter,

LETTER XV. Mr. MELMOTH, to Sir ROBERT HAROLD.

YOU are certainly one of the hap­piest fellows in the world: every thing is in a fair way of being adjusted to your wishes; and, before the end of six weeks, I am in hopes to give you joy on your marriage with the amiable Miss Mildmay.

The moment I received your last let­ter I went to lady Haversham with it; and you may easily judge how much that excellent woman was affected at the contents. Tremblingly attentive to your safety, it was with the greatest dif­ficulty she could go through your ac­count of the duel; and, generously sen­sible to the distresses of the Mildmay [Page 34] family, she felt very severely for the misfortune of the colonel— ‘O! Mr. Melmoth,’ cried she, ‘what must poor Louisa suffer, what must the good Mrs. Mildmay suffer, on this shocking occasion! My brother, con­scious of his guilt, should have borne every thing; and yet, upon the whole, he has acted with more temper than I expected—See Sir,’ continued she, ‘how wide, how general a ruin may be occasioned by one bad action! Did young fellows consider what a number of evils may possibly spring from the commission of a single crime, a moment's recollection would be sufficient to deter them from their most favourite pursuits; but, alas! totally regardless of consequences in the progress of their licentious de­signs, they think the young lady is the only person to be injured, without con­sidering that there is a mother to die at [Page 35] her destruction; and a father, or a brother, to madden at her disgrace.’

After lady Haversham had given way for some time to her emotion, I asked her if it would not be the most prudent step that could be taken, for her lady­ship to set out instantly to Mildmay Hall with your letter in her hand, and fairly shew the father and mother how little you were to be blamed in your ren­counter with the colonel. I observed, that, notwithstanding their resentment against you, they had every reason to treat her with the most unreserved af­fection; and I offered my service as an escorte, if she imagined I could accom­pany her with any degree of propriety. The motion met her approbation, and she accepted of my offer with great sa­tisfaction; saying, that, as Miss Mild­may's misfortune could not possibly remain a secret, the presence of a man [Page 36] so intimate with your family could by no means be indelicate. She, however, put off the expedition till the morning, being first of all desirous to see Louisa, whom she had not visited that day.—And here I must inform you, Harold, that your sister has bought a very elegant chariot, and settled matters just as you could wish with Mrs. Darnel. When lady Haversham came to that part of your letter which mentions such a provision—it was too much for her, she laid the paper down, and bursting into a flood of tears, exclaimed— ‘Why, this is well thought of Mr. Melmoth—there is soul in this! what pity it is that he will not be uniformly good, and take as much pains to avoid the commission of an injury as he manifests inclination to repair it!’ —But to business.

Yesterday morning we set out in a chariot and six for Mildmay Hall, and [Page 37] arrived there about two o'clock, quite surprizing Mr. and Mrs. Mildmay, as you may naturally imagine, by our un­expected appearance. The old gentle­man at first carried matters very high, and seemed to think himself under a necessity of keeping a prodigious di­stance; but lady Haversham, who has a degree of consideration that equals her benignity, kindly made allowances for his behaviour; and, seizing him by the arm with all that candour of cordia­lity which generally disarms an ill-grounded resentment, begged of him to consider her as a faithful friend to his family, who deeply partook in his mis­fortunes, though these misfortunes were unhappily created by the profligacy of her brother;—"My dear Mr. Mild­may," expostulated the admirable wo­man, ‘I am almost as much to be pitied as yourself; you know how much my heart was in an alliance [Page 38] with your house, and you also know how tender a friendship I ever enter­tained for the amiable Louisa; don't therefore, instead of giving me conso­lation, add ungenerously to my distress; but consider me as a person deeply sen­sible of all your wrongs; and warmly animated with all your resentments. The author of the present calamity is my brother; but I am sure you can­not think me the sister of his crime; nor imagine, that, because I am allied to him in blood, I must likewise be allied to the guilty part of his charac­ter. Look at me, I beseech you, with complacency; and tell me that my presence is not unwelcome in the country.’

This address there was no possibility of resisting—Mr. Mildmay's heart was melted; and, in spite of all his pride, he took hold of her hand with an air of [Page 39] the greatest respect, held it to his lips, and endeavoured to make an apology—A rising flood of grief, however, choak­ed the passage of his words; he broke into a sob of inexpressible affliction; and hastily retired out of the room. You know, Harold, how readily the mother, as you call it, comes into my eyes; you know, besides, that I am twenty good years older than you, and have been once a father. I could not, therefore, stand the excess of poor Mr. Mildmay's emotion; my handkerchief was out in an instant, and, notwithstand­ing my utmost efforts, to suppress my concern, I blubbered so heartily as to be under a necessity of retiring also, unac­quainted as I was with the house, and ridiculous as I must have made myself to the servants. As to Mrs. Mildmay, nothing can be more tender or affecting than the reception of your sister.—The two ladies, at their first meeting, remain­ed [Page 40] clasped for some moments in each other's arms, each unable to speak a syllable, and both giving a very copious freedom to their tears.

When we had all a little recovered ourselves, and taken a dish of chocolate, lady Haversham, with her usual delicacy, began to enter upon the business of her journey; lamenting the colonel's wound, in terms the most friendly; and hoping that the unfortunate affair at Reading would not prevent the possibility of a reconciliation between the two families: she then set forth your extreme contri­tion for the part you had acted by Louisa; and insinuated that she had a letter from you in her pocket, which, if Mr. Mildmay would take the trouble of reading, she was certain, would, in some measure, lessen the severity of his present indignation. Mr. Mildmay up­on this took fire; swearing, with great [Page 41] vehemence, that, so far from consenting to a reconciliation, he never would en­joy a moment's peace of mind till you were sacrificed to his vengeance; and, that, if he but knew where you were then concealed, he would himself, old as he was, call you to an instant account for murdering the reputation of his family.

This was a sally of passion which we naturally expected, and therefore did not once interrupt him, till it was en­tirely exhausted; lady Haversham then resumed the subject, and begged of him to consider, that she was now talking as much for the sake of his happiness, as for the happiness of her brother.—"Indeed, my dear Mr. Mildmay," con­tinued she, ‘if I was not sensible that the present calamity, under which we all labour, requires great allowances, I should be apt to think you almost [Page 42] as culpable as my brother himself. Does it follow, because he has grossly injured the honour of your house, that you yourself should do it still greater injuries? or can it admit of a mo­ment's debate which is the most proper course to follow—that which will re­cover the tranquility of your family, or that which will expose it to an additional distress?’

‘If calling my brother to an ac­count for his misbehaviour, could be attended with any advantages, I should not wonder so greatly at your resent­ment; but when to do that, as has been already unhappily the case, the safety of a dear and deserving son must be hazarded; and when, even if he should kill his antagonist, he must forfeit his own life to the violated laws of his country—I say, when these things are considered; and when it is [Page 43] moreover recollected, that, though the lenity of the laws should spare the life of your son, it can by no means re­store your peace; I am in hopes that your own good sense will induce you to abate the warmth of your indigna­tion, and that you will prefer a cer­tain felicity to a precarious revenge—Justice, you see, by the colonel's un­fortunate wound, may sometimes be unattended with success; and should you still prosecute a quarrel with a man who desires, who supplicates, who implores to make every reparation that can be made; the world will think your resentment carried to an unrea­sonable length, and be apt even to rejoice should you meet with any new calamity.’

‘To the arguments which I have already offered, my dear Mr. Mild­may, I have another very forcible [Page 44] plea to add, which I am sure must operate on your tenderness, as a hus­band; and upon your justice, as a man:—Turn, Sir, to this venerable, this excellent woman, the companion of your youth, the partner of your sor­rows, the possessor of your heart—see where she is, sinking under the stern­ness of your resolution, and bleeding with an apprehension of future mis­fortunes, as well as with a sensibility of the present distress—She, Sir, has a mother's claim in the son, whose life you are so willing to expose. Do not drive her into absolute distraction—Her anguish is already excessive, and her death must be inevitable, if you think of washing away her daughter's stain with nothing but the blood of her son. On my knees, therefore, Mr. Mildmay,’ and down the wonderful woman dropped, ‘let me beg of you to think of a recon­ciliation. [Page 45] —My brother is deeply wounded by the consciousness of his own guilt; and will, I am certain, from motives of gratitude, as well as affection, make a good son, and a deserving husband. Do not, my dear Mr. Mildmay, because one affliction has interrupted your happiness, rash­ly devote yourself to wretchedness for life; but rather seize the best means of dispelling the cloud which at pre­sent overcasts your peace; and en­deavour at recovering the genial sun­shine of that tranquility which has been so recently and so fatally lost.’

Mr. Mildmay (who all the time of your sister's kneeling, in vain attempted to raise her up) seemed greatly struck with what she said; but, though his reason was convinced, his pride never­theless held an obstinate struggle, and he several times attempted to quit the [Page 46] room—Lady Haversham and I as often prevented him from going out; we pre­vailed upon him with difficulty, to hear the principal part of your letter read; and Mrs. Mildmay herself kneeling to him, and in very pathetic terms request­ing him to oblige lady Haversham, he was at last overcome, and consented that you might be sent for as soon as we pleased, desiring only that the ceremony might be delayed till the recovery of the colonel.

When we had thus settled the mate­rial affair, our conversation naturally turned upon the colonel's case, and the abilities of his attendants.—Mr. Mild­may said, that, though the wound at first appeared extremely dangerous, as it was very near the groin; neverthe­less, the surgeons now told him, that there was but little doubt of a fine cure, provided he escaped a fever— [Page 47] "And this" said the old gentleman, ‘I am no way uneasy about, as the wea­ther is very cold and his pulse so very temperate: but,’ added he, ‘suppose you go and see him; there is nobody with him but Miss Beauclerk: and he had so fine a morning's sleep that we shan't in the least fatigue him with our company.’ We accordingly went; and were received, as I expected, with great coldness, though with great civi­lity—The sight of people so very near to you naturally hurting that impatience which we all labour under where we have received any thing which looks like a disgrace. Lady Haversham, how­ever, went up to him as if she had been his sister; and expressed her concern for the cause of his misfortune, with so un­affected an air of cordiality as reconciled him a little to his visitors. We then acquainted him with the business of our journey, talked matters over again, and [Page 48] read all your letter but that part where the provision for his sister is mentioned: he was extremely attentive to your ac­count of the duel, and begged more than once to hear a repetition of some particular passages. When I had done, he paused a little, and said, you were very exact in the relation; and that, had he imagined you were actuated by a sincere concern for your indiscretion, and were really going up to town with a view of entreating Louisa's forgiveness, he would not have been so rash: "But," says he, ‘my heart was in the match—and to find every thing broken off while I was flattering my imagination with the happiness my family was to posses—to find the rupture also so dishonourable to us; and to think that a sister, who was my principal pride, should be guilty of such a crime, made me absolutely mad; so that I almost wonder how I refrained from [Page 49] shooting Sir Robert through the head before I even offered him the choice of a pistol.’

Notwithstanding the colonel's seem­ing frankness, I could easily see he was secretly dissatisfied that he had not been consulted by his father in the conclusion of our accommodation. When the old gentlemen told him what he had con­sented to, he was extremely grave, and observed, ‘That to be sure it was better to settle matters any how, than to think of going farther with family resentments.’ The tone and look with which he delivered this were visi­bly sarcastic; and I could, however, rea­dily perceive he somewhat disconcerted his father. We took no notice of the expression, however; lady Haversham thinking with me, that those may be allowed to complain a little who feel a great deal. Dinner being ready by this [Page 50] time, we took our leave of the colonel, and sat down in a very sociable manner to a very good repast. Your sister was all life; and Mrs. Mildmay, who has been a very fine woman, was animated with a chearfulness that really filled me with pleasure; as, from the character lady Haversham gave me of her worth, I could not but share very sensibly in her afflictions.

In short, we were all extremely happy but Miss Beauclerk. This young lady, who ought to be the gayest person in company, was remarkably thoughtful and reserved; she scarcely touched a morsel of any thing, and even more than once let a sigh escape her pretty audible: she is a very fine girl indeed, Harold; and, if she is but half as good as she is hand­some, it would be ten thousand pities that any thing should give her the least uneasiness. You cannot conceive how [Page 51] excessively I am taken with her—there is so much real good sense, so much genuine delicacy, and so much true be­nevolence in every word and action, that was it possible for me ever to marry a second time, or possible for her to look on such an old fellow, I really believe she would be the woman in the world whom I should first think of—but what have I do with the sex! In my youth I lost the woman of my heart—When I last saw her she was just such another young creature as this Miss Beauclerk; all beauty and beneficence, all sensibility and love: Miss Beauclerk has in fact her very form, her very face, the same irresistable sweetness of voice, and ele­gance of manner which once distinguish­ed my Nancy; and which, though long since buried in the grave, have been con­tinually present to my imagination. Be good natured, Harold, and bear with me a little on this tender subject—You [Page 52] know I seldom break out, and therefore may now and then be entitled to a little indulgence, especially as I am always so ready to put up with your everlasting impertinence.

The ladies retiring a little after dinner, and leaving Mr. Mildmay and I to chat over a bottle of Burgundy, I took the liberty to make some enquiry about Miss Beauclerk, assuring the old gentleman that I was strongly prepossess­ed in her favour.— ‘Why truly, Mr. Melmoth,’ returned he, ‘I don't know a sweeter, better tempered girl in the world than this young lady; my Louisa and she contracted an in­timacy at the boarding school, when they were both very young, and have ever since been remarkably distinguish­ed for the closeness of their friend­ship; the one never knowing joy or a sorrow in which the other did not [Page 53] immediately enhance the satisfaction, or mitigate the distress. I am sure, in the late unhappy affair, my daughter's misfortune affected Miss Beauclerk as closely as if Louisa had actually been her sister—During the time of her being here, she has applied her­self with such assiduity to comfort and take care of my poor wife, that I consider her as a principal instrument in Mrs. Mildmay's preservation—Her mother, Sir, lost her husband while Harriot was yet an infant at the breast; he died it seems in the East-Indies, and left the good lady in such very slender circumstances, that, had not a relation of her own, who died also about the same time, left her a fortune of 20000l. in the funds, she must have gone into some little way of business for the maintenance of herself and her daughter. Upon the interest of this sum she keeps a carriage, and [Page 54] has a most delightful retirement about thirty miles off—What is extremely re­markable, is, that, though she was not much above twenty when her husband died, and when she came into posses­sion of this fortune, yet, so far from acting like the generality of women, and listening to the addresses of every coxcomb who might have designs either upon her person or her purse, she retired immediately from London to the spot I have been speaking of, and there continued ever since, con­fining her visits within a very narrow circle, and dedicating her attention to the education of her daughter. Within a mile of her house my Louisa was at school when a child; and the inti­macy between the little ones naturally creating an acquaintance between the parents, Mrs. Beauclerk and our fa­mily have been upon the most unre­served footing of friendship these [Page 55] sixteen years; and, I dare say, shall continue in friendship till the end of our lives, as there is but one circum­stance which can possibly disturb the harmony of our correspondence.’

As it would have been extremely rude in a stranger to ask what this cir­cumstance was, I did not interrupt Mr. Mildmay; nevertheless I was lucky enough, in the naturally communicative­ness of his temper, to have my curiosity gratified; his heart was now open, and he considered me as a good natured friendly man who might be trusted with a secret; drawing his chair therefore closer to mine, and lowering his voice, he proceeded to unbosom himself to the following purport.

‘You must know, Mr. Melmoth, that, during the intimacy between Mrs. Beauclerk's family and mine, I have [Page 56] discovered that my son entertains very favourable sentiments of her daugh­ter; and between ourselves I can see plainly enough that her daughter is no way disinclined to my son. I have been a young fellow myself, Mr. Mel­moth; and, in my time—you under­stand me—but that is nothing to the purpose—As I was saying, this mu­tual good opinion between Harry and Miss Beauclerk, is a thing which gives me no little uneasiness—the young lady to be sure possesses a very high place in my esteem, and I don't know a woman in the kingdom whom I should be better pleased to have for a daughter; but the misfortune is she does not carry sufficient weight of metal, and I have some family views in my head, which, though I am pretty well in the world, require a considera­ble addition of fortune. My house, Mr. Melmoth, is a very antient one; [Page 57] there have been more than two peer­ages in it; and I have myself some expectation of a title. Now, Sir, as the support of such a dignity cannot allow me to marry my son to a woman of little fortune; on this account I am greatly concerned that any secret correspondence should be carried on between him and Miss Beauclerk. I should be very sorry to oppose his inclinations, or to wound her sensibi­lity; but you know the raising of one's family is a very essential point; and that, ridiculous as a coronet may appear to some people, it is never­theless entitled to priviledges, which are far from being disagreeable—This is not all—a noble lord in the neigh­bourhood, who is able to give his daughter a prodigious sum of money, has lately intimated, a desire of unit­ing his family with mine; and I think so very well of the affair, that I [Page 58] mentioned it yesterday to my son, when I found him launching out into some passionate encomiums on Miss Beauclerk.’ —Mr. Mildmay pausing in this place, I could not help observ­ing, that, though the plan which was thus laid down for the aggrandization of his family, might in itself be ex­tremely right, nevertheless, if his son entertained a cordial affection for the young lady, the possession of her hand might be more conducive to his happi­ness than the possession of a title; and that therefore it might be difficult to make him sacrifice the interest of his heart even to gratify the laudable am­bition of his father—But the old gen­tleman stopped me short, by declaring, He believed the colonel would do any thing to oblige him. "However," says he, ‘if I should be unhappily disap­pointed of his obedience in the matter we have been talking of, I know how [Page 59] to punish his obstinacy when I come to dispose of my fortune.’ Here our conversation ended, for the ladies com­ing in we were obliged to talk of some­thing else; though I should have told you, that Mr. Mildmay more than once insinuated a fear, that his lady secretly approved of the passion subsisting be­tween Miss Beauclerk and the colonel.

I could moralize in this place, Sir Robert, on the preposterous behaviour of those fathers who are willing to give their children every thing but happiness. Reflections of this nature, however, are too common to be useful; and it would be just as new to tell you, that the parts of a day consist of twenty-four hours, as to tell you that the very fondness of such fathers is the most in­supportable of all tyrannies. Poor Miss Beauclerk—and is the tawdry gewgaw of a coronet to be put in competition [Page 60] with the charms of exalted virtue, elevat­ed sense, and sweetness ineffable! But love would be too exquisite an enjoyment, Harold, had not Providence wisely thrown these bars in our way, and tem­pered the inexpressible raptures which it bestows with some occasional mixtures of infelicity.

Lady Haversham just now called me aside, and hinted that she had spoken to Mrs. Mildmay relative to some ex­pressions which Louisa had dropped in your sister's last interview with her, in­dicating the most positive determination of never seeing you more. Mrs. Mild­may is to write to her on this subject, and therefore she can but little doubt of Louisa's altering her determination; the resolution of her family in your favour was the principal point to gain; and since we could work upon their pride, there can be no doubt of influencing [Page 61] her sensibility. A woman, Harold, can forgive every thing where she really loves; the ladies have a softness about them which turns even contempt into kindness, and gives the tenderness of their hearts a constant superiority over the goodness of their understandings. I should be sorry, however, that all cox­combs were for reducing this precept into practice; as we have already but too many fools among the fair who are desirous of stamping their weakness with the immediate image of destiny, and so­licitous to call that an absolute decree of fate which arises from their own appa­rent want of resolution.

I have been this moment at a consul­tation of colonel Mildmay's surgeons, and have the very great pleasure of in­forming you that he is entirely out of danger.—You may therefore, by the next Helvoetsluys packet, make a trip [Page 62] to Harwich, since at the utmost it can't be above twelve hours from Rotterdam to Helvoet. If you should stop at the Hague, pray call at Fitzpatrick's in the Hoogstraat; who is as modest, as sensi­ble, and as well behaved a man as I ever saw at the head of a tavern; and who, without mentioning any body's name, will treat you with the utmost civility: if you know the man already my cha­racter will be needless; if you do not, you will find a very good house, and so far be obliged to me for this accommo­dation.

As we have done our business at Mildmay Hall, your sister and I shall set out for London, in order to wait upon Louisa, and acquaint her with the determination of her father. Mrs. Mild­may has a letter to send by us to her daughter, which will put a finishing hand to the reconciliation; so that, Bob, you [Page 63] may look upon the whole affair as con­cluded to your wish; yet it is ten to one that, now happiness is again within your reach, but what you strive to start difficulties, and endeavour to destroy all that lady Haversham and I have been labouring to bring about with such an unremitting degree of fedulity.

Take care, however, dear Harold, how you act at this time; and do not idly play the prodigal with your own happiness—Youth can never excuse a bad action, though it may extenuate the indiscretion of a foolish one; and the man who is twice guilty of the same crime, is in much more danger of mak­ing himself abhorred, than in rendering others wretched or contemptible; take the hint therefore, Bob, and believe me, with the utmost cordiality,

LETTER XVI. Mr. MELMOTH, in Continuation, to Sir ROBERT HAROLD.

IF you have not yet set out from Rot­terdam, you may as well continue where you are, or go to any other part of the continent which is best adapted to your inclination; England is not a place which I would have you return to yet awhile, if you really love Miss Mildmay, and would be concerned to find her actually allied to infamy and prostitu­tion.

Your sister and I arrived in town this morning; and, unable to contain the sa­tisfaction with which our bosoms na­turally swelled at your approaching feli­city; [Page 65] we immediately drove to Louisa's, with a view of dispelling her unhappi­ness, by acquainting her with the for­tunate reconciliation effected between her and her family—But judge our astonishment, when, instead of meeting with her, Mrs. Darnel came down stairs with an air of the utmost affliction, and informed us that Miss Mildmay had eloped in a post-chaise and six, with a gentleman richly dressed, the preceding evening— ‘Having no authority to watch her motions,’ said Mrs. Darnel, ‘and imagining from her specious air of penitence, if I even had, that every attention of that nature would be ut­terly unnecessary, I went to hear a lecture at our parish-church after tea, never once dreaming that during my absence she would think of running away from a house into which she had entered a voluntary visitor, and in which there was no likelihood of her [Page 66] receiving the smallest disgust—You may, however, easily guess my con­sternation, when my maid Jenny, the moment I came home, ran up and in­formed me that Miss Mildmay had gone off with a gentleman in a post­chaise. I naturally concluded, that, had it been any relation, I should have received some notice of her intended departure; and therefore, as she went away in so unaccountable a manner, I as naturally ascribed her flight to some preconcerted design; especially as Jenny informed me, that a gentleman in brown and gold had for two or three nights been seen to hang about the house, and to peep in at the windows with a degree of breed­ing much below the elegance of his appearance—Notwithstanding these unpromising accounts, I nevertheless sat up till four o'clock, rather hoping than expecting the unfortunate young [Page 67] lady's return; but, alas! I might have sat up till this moment, without reap­ing the least advantage from my anxiety or my fatigue; she never once approached the house, and which way she has gone I am by no means able to conjecture.’

And this, Sir Robert, is the end of all our expectations. For my own part, strenuously solicitous as I was but a few hours ago in her favour, I now sincerely congratulate with you on your fortunate escape; I now begin to think you were right in rejecting her from the first, and am perfectly satisfied that the error, which I thought the effect of her partiality for you, was nothing more than the result of her own constitution. Lady Haversham, however, will not sub­scribe to my opinion of her levity, tho' she knows not any cause to which [Page 68] her elopement can be so probably attri­buted—Nevertheless, she thinks all enquiry after her needless; and almost wishes that she had not taken the journey into Oxfordshire— ‘For this new disappointment, Mr. Melmoth,’ says she, ‘will come with additional weight upon her family; and, if it does not entirely kill the poor mother, it will certainly drive her distracted.’

Mrs. Darnel, who appears to be a decent well behaved woman, notwith­standing your suspicions, is to send down an account of Louisa's elopement to Mildmay Hall. What consequences it may produce there I know not; but of this I am certain, that you have every reason in nature to be happy in the timely discovery of her levity—Had such a dis­covery been made after your marriage with her, I suppose the result would [Page 69] have been her immediate death, and your certain execution—You would have sacrificed her instantly to your fury; and your life would have been the penalty of your rashness. Return thanks, there­fore, to Providence for having such a fortunate escape, and do not meanly re­gret the loss of a woman whom you know to be guilty, when you could so readily give her up at a time that you thought her innocence, in a manner, un­questionable. But you see, Harold, that innocence, like contrition, may be easily affected; and that those may seem the most strenuous votaries of virtue, who are in fact the least unhappy at its loss.

If any thing new should occur before you think of returning home, you need not doubt of my readiness to commu­nicate it. Lady Haversham is extreme­ly affected with Louisa's behaviour, but [Page 70] attempts very little, if any thing, in her defence; she sends her best wishes to you by this letter; and desires me to assure you, that she is as much your affectionate sister as I am

LETTER XVII. Miss HARRIOT BEAUCLERK to her Mother.

A DISTRESS of a more piercing nature than ever has fallen upon this unhappy family. You will scarcely conceive, and I have scarcely power to inform you; but my wretched friend Miss Mildmay, while lady Haversham was down here, as I told you in my last letter, settling every thing to our wishes, and restoring every body to peace, eloped from Mrs. Darnel's, in London, with a strange gentleman, in a chariot and six, while her cousin was at church; and where she is gone there is no likelihood of discovering; Mrs. Darnel's account of this affair reached us this morning; [Page 72] and from the pain which I know your own worthy heart will feel on this melan­choly occasion, you may easily imagine what an effect it had on her poor father and mother; upon her brother and my­self. I would, if possible, have kept it from the colonel, as I thought the know­ledge of so fatal an accident might ma­terially retard his recovery—But Mr. Mildmay's rage was too violent, and the venerable lady's anguish too excessive, to admit of such a salutary secrecy; so that, in less than five minutes, he was made acquainted with the minutest cir­cumstances; and the agitation of his mind has been so prodigious ever since, that his physicians begin to be appre­hensive about the consequences.

Indeed, my dear mama, I am, inexpres­sibly wretched from the part which I am to act in the general calamity—every body turns to me for consolation,— [Page 73] when my own bosom is torn with a thousand distresses—and expects that I should be able to administer comfort, when I am equally, if not more, misera­ble myself. You, my dearest mama, must sooth my afflictions—You must enable me, by the magnanimity of your example, and the wisdom of your advice, to bear up against this unexpected stroke of misfortune, which now falls on me with an aggravated heaviness, as it comes in the hour of my utmost security, and invades me in the most unsuspecting moment of my hopes—I was feasting my imagination, madam, with number­less prospects of future felicity; and preparing my heart for nothing but hap­piness and you—When, alas! the golden scene is instantly ravished from my eyes, and the whole void as instantly filled up with disappointment and despair.

[Page 74]When I consider this unaccountable step of Louisa's, I am lost in perplexity and doubt—Mrs. Darnel's letter ac­quaints us that she went away of her own accord; that she was not carried off by force, but that she absolutely eloped; and the maid even describes the gentle­man with whom she went, as a tall handsome man, drest in brown, richly laced with gold; she says also, that he was a very fair man, and wore a bob wig. All this is mighty odd—I have known her from her infancy up; have shared every secret of her heart, and never conceived that she entertained the least affection for any body but Sir Robert Harold—Him it cannot be, as by Mr. Melmoth's account he set out for Holland the moment after the unhappy duel between him and the colonel; and besides, he has a com­plexion remarkably black, and wears his own hair. When I put all these [Page 75] things together, my dear mama, I am astonished—Louisa would hardly go off with a man for whom she felt no affec­tion; and the whole tenor of her life has been so generously frank, and open; and so repugnant to every thing like hypocrisy or artifice; that I could stake my existence Sir Robert is the only man for whom she cherished a favourable sentiment—Besides, madam, if you were to see the letter which she sent her mother, you would be satisfied, that, notwithstanding her unhappy lapse with that gentleman, she is infinitely above the appearance of dissimulation—Her error is there acknowleged in such forcible terms; and lamented with such a sense of unextenuating penitence, that her faults almost render her amiable, and the only emotions which we feel are those of pity and admiration.

[Page 76]For these reasons, I am positive my amiable friend can be no way depraved in her principles; yet, on the other hand, Mrs. Darnel is a woman of known sobriety and character; is re­ceived among people of the first distinc­tion, in consequence of her good beha­viour; and she mentions Louisa's elope­ment with so positive a degree of cer­tainty, that there can be no possibility of disputing the fact—God grant that this contradiction may be happily reconciled. My own soul is not dearer in my esti­mation than the happiness of Miss Mild­may; and I don't know that I could be able to survive any instance of her pre­mediated unworthiness—Premeditated unworthiness! No, my ever amiable Louisa, you are incapable of a deliberate guilt; and the bare supposition was a blasphemy against the purity of our mutual affection—The heart which can question the virtue of a friend till it [Page 77] argues upon absolute conviction, is a traitor to the cause of amity; the most alarming appearance should never shake the confidence of our friendship; and though, in every thing else, a nice combination of accidents may justify a doubt, yet here we ought never to hesi­tate upon circumstances, nor to lessen in our regards till conjecture is evidently lost, in certainty.

These arguments, my dear mama, I have repeatedly urged in the present state of things to the good Mrs. Mild­may—But she shakes her head when I want her to reduce the precept into practice; and, while the large drops course one another down her venerable cheeks, she tells me the sentiment sounds prettily enough upon the ear, but is little calculated to convince the understand­ing. I wish, my dear mama, you could come over to us; there never was a [Page] greater necessity for your supporting presence than now—Mrs. Mildmay seems in a very declining way, and her situation alarms me the more strongly, as she does every thing in her power to put on an air of the utmost composure and serenity.

As you, my dear mama, are one of those excellent women who bring up a daughter rather in a state of respectful familiarity with you, than endeavour to establish an authority by keeping her in a distant degree of abject subjection—As you are generous enough to receive those instances of confidence as a favour which you can command as a right, and can blend all the tenderness of the parent with all the freedom of the friend, I am enabled to talk to you on a subject which few young women ever care to mention to a mother, though a mother's [Page 79] ear is the properest by much for a busi­ness of such importance.

You have often, my dear madam, kindly hinted your apprehension, that the merits of colonel Mildmay were making too deep an impression on my heart; and that I should by all means resist every impulse of a tender nature, in his favour, as there was but too much reason to apprehend that the dis­parity of our fortunes would be a ma­terial bar to our union, notwithstanding the harmony subsisting so long between our two families. Your advice, my ever honoured mama, I was convinced was perfectly just; nevertheless—but why should I think of concealing any thing from my best friend—from the only person in the world who by nature and inclination must be the readiest to re­joice at my felicity, or to participate in my distress—Yes, madam, I must own, [Page 80] in spite of all your judicious precau­tions, my heart was insensibly engaged, and I loved before I was aware that the colonel had any other place in my affections, than what was due to the bro­ther of Louisa—You, madam, I am sure, must have seen, upon several occa­sions, what an awkward constraint I have laboured under when I have been in his company—Your penetration could not be eluded, though I then fondly thought nobody could see into my sentiments, and piqued myself upon the address with which I behaved in so very critical a situation.

Indeed, the respectful tenderness with which the colonel all along treated me, contributed not a little to raise him in my esteem—Upon a thousand little oc­casions he gave me proof of his good opinion, though he never made me the most distant tendre of his heart; but [Page 81] judging of his sentiments by my own; or possibly believing, because I wished it might be so, that he really saw me with more than a common degree of friend­ship; I suffered the flame imperceptibly to spread, and was solicitous only of concealing my weakness from his obser­vation; but matters, madam, have, at last, come to something of a crisis, and I have the satisfaction of knowing that my tenderness is at least returned, whether I am ever blest with the object of it or not.

The second day after the colonel's coming down wounded, before he was yet pronounced out of danger, he sent his compliments to me, and begged I would favour him with a visit, as he had something of importance to acquaint me with. The light in which I was consider­ed by every body in the family, joined to the nature of his situation, would [Page 82] have made it affectation to the last de­gree, had I not immediately complied with his request—I therefore went, and the attendants being ordered out of the room, he begged of me to seat myself close to the bedside; where, taking hold of my hand, and desiring I would not be offended at what he was going to say, he went on to the following purport.

O! mama, what a mind has this man!—Here, however, he was obliged to rest himself a little, while the only reply I could make was with my tears.

After a pause of some moments, he resumed the affecting subject, and thus continued his discourse— ‘I do not now, my ever adorable Miss Beauclerk, meanly intend, by an address to your generosity, to make any interest with your heart—Your esteem I should be proud of possessing; but thus hover­ing, as I may say, on the verge of eternity, I should be sorry, for your own sake, was I honoured with your love—May that, madam, be reserved for some fortunate man, whose merits are sufficient to justify your choice, and whose situation will not create any [Page 86] impediments in the road of your hap­piness.—Had I been destined for such a blessing!—but why do I harrow up my own reflection, or wound your sensibility—I know the ineffable sweetness of that temper, and have seen numberless occasions where a tale of calamity has deluged it in tears.—From an ungenerous lamenta­tion, I shall therefore proceed to busi­ness; and, if I can but gain your ac­quiescence to a last request, the hand of death will lye light upon my brows, and I shall go out of the world in a comparative state of content.’

O! my dear mama, how I trembled at the solemnity, the tenderness of his manner—the dangerous extremity to which I saw him reduced. In short, as he himself phrased it, very happily the distresses of his mind, and the anguish of his wound, interested me so much in [Page 87] his favour, that I never thought of interrupting him; but continued one passive hand all the time in his, the other being employed in holding up my hand­kerchief to my eyes, which were by this time quite red, and swollen with my emotion—After another pause to re­cover strength he thus went on.

O! good God, my dear mama, it was his will, his—will—had the uni­verse been offered me I could not touch it—my sensibility now became audible

I quite sobbed, yet, scarcely knowing what I did, I disengaged my hand from his, and, falling down upon my knees by the bed-side, cried out, ‘O spare me, Sir,—spare me—this is too much—indeed it is.’ —At the same time sinking my face upon the bed cloaths, wholly unable to look up, as if I was conscious of some manifest impropriety—To be sure, madam, it was very wrong in me to let him see how much I was distressed—But what could I do—Con­sider [Page 89] his tenderness for me, and then think of his melancholy situation. In short, my ever revered mama, consider also that I had sentiments of a softer nature than gratitude or friendship to occasion my agitation, and then you will be much more apt to pity than to condemn it.

The colonel, madam, seemed greatly affected by my emotion; and, by endea­vouring to assist me up, occasioned me to rise considerably sooner than what I would have done had he made use of the most earnest entreaties; for the mo­ment I found him exerting himself to that purpose I recollected his wound, and was instantly in my former situa­tion, notwithstanding my cheeks were visibly studded over with tears; and notwithstanding my perturbation was so excessive as to furnish a man of his fine sense with some reasonable suspicions of [Page 90] the cause—Be this as it may, he pressed my hand to his lips with an air of inex­pressible tenderness; and, apologizing for the uneasiness which he had given me, he continued to enforce his request with so much vehemence, and to declare in so positive a manner that he could never enjoy a moment's peace unless I gratified him in this point, that I told him I would consider the matter a little far­ther, and give him an answer in two or three days— ‘Two or three days, Har­riot!’ replied he with a mixture of sorrow and surprize, ‘Two or three days! Suppose that in this time I should be taken off—Your answer then will be a little of the latest, and I shall go out of the world without my principal consolation—The thing and the time require an immediate determination; and my reason for mentioning it to you at all, is to prevent the rashness of your [Page 91] generosity.—I know that, should I die without exacting a sacred pro­mise from you to enjoy yourself this last little mark of my affection, you would think it an indispensable obli­gation to give every thing back to my family—But my family is already too rich for its own happiness; and, if I am to be removed, will have still less occasion for its extraordinary opu­lence—Promise, therefore, Harriot, so­lemnly promise, in the presence of that God, who sees with how aking a sense of tenderness I love you, that you will, according to the true purport of my request, accept of this testament—In it I have not forgot some proper remembrances for my father and mo­ther; and, because I knew you would receive more pleasure on that ac­count, I have not ordered any erasure to be made in an article that relates [Page 92] to the wretched Louisa. Talking, my dear Miss Beauclerk, I find becomes inconvenient to me—Indulge me therefore at once, and consider, that to be generous, upon some occasions, may be the highest instance of barba­rity.’

Whether I was right or wrong, my dear mama, you must determine; but, unable to resist his solicitations any longer, I took the paper with a reluctant hand; and, in my confusion, putting it into my bosom instead of my pocket, the colonel seemed transported at the action, kissed my hand a thousand times, and declared he could now quit the world with content. All the time I was sinking under a load of equal awkward­ness and anxiety, till the surgeons hap­pily coming in, gave me an opportunity of retiring, and unlading the fullness of my heart in a fresh shower of tears.

[Page 93]The good Mrs. Mildmay, knowing that I had been a considerable while in the colonel's apartment, came up to my room; and, finding my eyes extremely red, she threw her kind arms round my neck, and calling me by the tenderest appellations you can conceive, told me she had been long sensible that her son was passionately in love with me; and that she also had been long sensible, not­withstanding my delicate reserve, (so she was pleased to say) that I considered him with an eye of affection— ‘But my sweet girl, my dear Harriot,’ conti­nued she, finding me distressed and astonished at this information, ‘don't imagine I have seen this mutual re­gard with any other regret, but my fear, that Mr. Mildmay would not be propitious to the happiness of his son: for my own part, I am so convinced of your worth, that the colonel has an additional share in my regard on [Page 94] account of his attachment to you; and, could I but prevail upon his father, I should still have a daughter no less dear in my estimation than the miser­able Louisa—But, my love, this fa­mily—pride so runs away with my poor Mr. Mildmay's good sense, that I despair of making him sacrifice the suggestions of his vanity to the sentiments of his reason: his mind has been always taken up with an idea of making his children great; and, so he could gain them an empty title, he payed but little consideration to what might secure their felicity.’

And thus, my dear mama, are matters at present situated; and thus, all the time that I have been supposing my af­fection for the colonel a secret, this ex­cellent woman has seen into the most latent recesses of my heart, and even kindly sympathized with my anxiety. [Page 95] You may be sure, madam, that, after this excessive goodness had a little embold­ened me, I made her acquainted with every circumstance which passed with the colonel, though I scarcely knew how to mention the affair of the will, as I thought she might fancy me on that account an enemy, though an involun­tary one, to the interest of her family—But Mrs. Mildmay, madam, is a coun­terpart of yourself; she has a soul inca­pable of listening to any little considera­tions, and observes the practice of gene­rosity too much in her own conduct not to love it in other people's—As I went on with my story she was gradually af­fected—her heart laboured—and her eye rose in perfect unison to mine; and, upon the conclusion of my narrative, "Harriot," says she, ‘the more I know you, the more I wish you for my daughter—My son has pleased me exceedingly by his conduct on this [Page 96] occasion; and I think you would have acted rather below the dignity of your character, had you not condescended to oblige him; but, notwithstanding the little likelihood of present appear­ances, I have yet a dawn of hope which beams across my bosom, and assures me you shall one day be happy with the colonel—Had the unfortunate Louisa—But why do I afflict myself with recollecting a creature who now has really dishonoured us—Her scan­dalous elopement, in the very moment of her seeming penitence, argues an uncommon turpitude of sentiment; and shews that her first indiscretion was not so much the consequence of an extravagant tenderness for her lover, as the result of her natural de­pravity. God will, I hope, however, forgive the unhappy wretch her guilt, and mercifully incline to swell the [Page 97] enormity of her crime, by putting down her death to my account.’

My unhappy Louisa!—You may be sure, my dear mama, I did what I possi­bly could to alleviate the distresses of the venerable Mrs. Mildmay, at the same time that I said every thing which could extenuate the seeming misbehaviour of my friend; the good old lady seemed willing to catch at any twig of proba­bility which might keep her hopes en­tirely from sinking; but, alas! the fatal force of appearances rendering the very strongest quite unequal to the task, she changed the conversation, and asked me if I had any scruple to shew her the colonel's will—I replied, that I could have no scruple to shew her any thing, as I was sensible she could never have a desire that was not founded on the strictest propriety; and therefore imme­diately produced it from my bosom— [Page 98] "My dear," says she, ‘you are very good; and yet be assured I should not make this request on any account, was I not convinced that you wish as cordially as myself that the testator's recovery may prevent the will from being ever carried into execution.’

Indeed, madam, (returned I)—"Harriot," interrupted she, ‘let minds that doubt each other's candour break out into professions of regard, and sentimental exclamations; it is below us, however, my love, to enter into a vindication of our motives, since any argument to prove them just would be tacitly to acknowlege that it was possible for them to be otherwise. We will not, my dearest girl, even wrong the rectitude of our own principles by implication; nor be the first to deny ourselves that merit which has been hitherto granted us by every [Page 99] body else.’ —So saying, she opened the will, which is very short, containing little more than a general reason for the colonel's appointing me his heir; and leaving a miniature of himself set in diamonds to his mother; his horses, arms, and watch, to his father; his li­brary to Louisa; a diamond ring to yourself; some trifling remembrances to other friends; and his cloaths and about two hundred pounds among the servants.

Short as the will was, my dear mama, I could scarcely stand the shock of read­ing it; there is something so awful in a will, you know, even where one's self is not concerned; but when it is made by a person for whom one entertains an esteem; when a partiality is absolutely shewn in one's own favour; and when there is another person by, who is infi­nitely more entitled to a preference; it [Page 100] must be inexpressibly distressing to us if we are not wholly divested of sentiment and delicacy. You cannot, therefore, imagine my confusion, when I found the colonel had left me two thousand pounds in money; the magnificent service of plate, which had been his godfather, Harley's; and the Buckinghamshire estate, which is seven hundred pounds a year, and which was formerly his great aunt Ingoldsby's. Mrs. Mildmay saw my anx­iety, and kindly pitied it; restoring me the paper, and acknowleging she had been to blame in suffering her curiosity to carry her so far— ‘But, my dear Harriot,’ says she, ‘a mother will pay but little attention to decorum in any thing which concerns the conduct of her children.’ After this, we had a long conversation about the colonel, in which Mrs. Mildmay seemed so high­ly pleased with his behaviour to me, that I was somewhat re-assured, and [Page 101] had fresh opportunities of admiring the greatness of her generosity. Notwith­standing this, the circumstances of the will rendered me excessive awkward, till we were flattered with some certain hopes of the colonel's recovery. From that moment I breathed a free-er air, and considered myself as less an inter­loper in the family; he is now, thank God, in a very fine way, and has borne the fresh shock of his sister's abrupt de­parture, with a much greater share of fortitude than could be expected.

And now, my dear mama, how do you do, and what do you say to the boldness of your girl, in thus presuming to talk to you upon such a point as the foregoing subject? Do you condemn her of temerity, or approve her for candour; do you imagine that she has grown forward on your indulgence, or do you think that she has made only a [Page 102] proper use of your tenderness, and treat­ed you with the openness which is doubly your due from the closeness of your relation, and the greatness of your indulgence? I wish I knew your senti­ments; for, as you have always studied to anticipate every desire of mine, I should be a monster indeed if I hesitated but an instant to comply with your in­clinations. The whole family here, my dear mama, are impatient to see you—Mrs. Mildmay longs, she says, to talk with you about the colonel, and you know who—the old gentleman repeated­ly tells me, that the value of a friend is only to be experienced in the day of adversity; and the colonel hopes that nothing at the Hall has given you any cause of disgust. Come to us then, dear madam, for your company is greatly wanted; and by none, you may believe, so much as your daughter: the colonel's tenderness oppresses me, the amiable [Page 103] Louisa's fate distracts me, and Mrs. Mildmay's goodness is insupportable. Come then, madam, to her rescue; the arms of maternal affection are always fraught with peace; and, if they bring comfort in proportion to their benignity, who is so likely to receive the balm of consolation as

P.S. When I write to my dear mama I never know where to leave off—I should have told you that Butler, a very sensi­ble fellow, who is servant to the colonel, has been sent away to London to make a minute enquiry at Mrs. Darnel's, in re­lation to Louisa—God grant the honest man may succeed; for, if friendship is liable to be attended with such anguish [Page 104] as I feel upon this dear but unfortunate girl's account, I must, for the future, avoid every acquaintance with the most amiable part of my sex, for fear of being plunged into continual calamities.

LETTER XVIII. Sir ROBERT HAROLD to CHARLES MELMOTH, Esq.

IT is in vain, my dear Melmoth, I find, for your unfortunate friend to continue any longer abroad: the change of country in no manner tends to alle­viate the distresses of his bosom, nor erases in the least the form of that amiable wretch, that Miss Mildmay, from his recollection. If possible, she gives him every moment an additional pang; and, till he becomes utterly de­prived both of memory and sense, he must feel the sharpest affliction on her account.

In reality, Charles, though it is now twelve months since the infamous flight [Page 106] of that unfortunate girl, I am rather more wretched than ever—She is con­tinually present to my imagination; and I find, in spite of my pride and my reason, that she holds an absolute empire over my heart, and that I must actually cease to live before I can actually cease to love her. Don't despise me, how­ever, my dear Melmoth—I blush for my own baseness, in suffering the a­bandoned woman even to steal a single instant upon my thoughts; but, alas! the more I would banish her, the more forcible she returns; and I am distracted with a perpetual round of tenderness and shame; of pity and indignation: wherever I go I am torn with a variety of opposite passions; and, to use the language of poor Sciolto, ‘All within is anarchy and uproar."’

[Page 107]How, Melmoth, when I received your first letter at Rotterdam, did my soul exult in the expectation of being com­pletely happy with Louisa! The most distant insinuation of that delicacy which originally caused all our misfortunes, was then argued down into silence; and the universal joy which I thought would flow from a reconciliation, added to the tumultuous tide of transport that swelled about my heart from a still more na­tural cause, gave me an absolute fore­taste of elysium.—But Providence thought proper, by an accident which I considered, at that time, as the greatest of all calamities, to snatch me from the smiling destruction, and graciously counteracted the warmth of my wishes to preserve me from everlasting disgrace—O! Melmoth, had I been married to her before this fortunate discovery of her infamy—think what would have been the consequence!—To the remotest [Page 108] confine of the world I had pursued her; and, as Othello says,

In fact, Charles, I should have proceed­ed upon some immediate act of despera­tion; and, perhaps, after I had sacrificed her to the justice of my resentment, it is more than probable I had been tempt­ed to lay violent hands on myself.

You see, however, my dear friend, from the conduct of this unhappy wretch, how much reason I had for sup­posing that the woman who deviates from the rules of virtue with one man, will have very little scruple to indulge the licentious turn of her disposition with another; you see what reason I had to set Louisa's crime down to the ac­count of genuine constitution, instead of attributing it to the weakness of an [Page 109] extravagant love—But your women of strong passions, Charles, are continually falling in love; every fresh object in­spires a fresh desire; and when they have once conquered that exalted deli­cacy of sentiment, which is the principal bulwark of their honour, they give an unbounded license to enjoyment; and imagine that, since they have been fami­liar with one person, there can be no ad­dition to their guilt by an equal famili­arity with all. Thus, instead of an en­deavour to recover the hallowed paths of innocence, they make a single indis­cretion an excuse for the commission of a thousand; and indulge every rising gust of inclination, by arguing them­selves into a belief that it cannot in the least increase the infamy of their cha­racters.

You pleased me extremely by your re­peated accounts of colonel's Mildmay's [Page 110] perfect recovery. Poor fellow, he now sees for what a worthless woman he ventured his life; and those mad-headed puppies that are for resenting the ruin of a sister, impatient to be ruined, and one who places the principal of all feli­cities in her absolute destruction, will, I hope, be warned by Louisa's conduct, from hazarding their throats whenever a profligate hussey thinks proper to throw away her reputation. Is it not, however, surprizing, that, in all this time, notwithstanding the most dili­gent search of the Mildmay house, no account whatsoever can be heard of their delicate daughter? But I suppose she is in some secluded corner of the kingdom, wallowing in the stye of un­bounded prostitution, and even enter­taining some underbred scoundrel of a keeper with the pangs which her in­famous flight has thrust into the bosom of her miserable family—O! for some [Page 111] quick, some executing curse to strike the strumpet and her paramour this moment to the center, though I was to follow them the next—Perhaps, Charles, she is diverting him with a ludicrous representation of your friend; and laughing with him this moment at my stupidity in once believing her a woman of virtue—Perhaps, my manner is mi­micked to a circle of intoxicated fox-hunters; and, perhaps, a whole table of brutal country squires are at this very instant roaring at the seriousness and so­lemnity of my first declaration—O! that I was near her—that I could reach her prostituted heart—By the great God of heaven it would give me more pleasure to tear it from her bosom, than to re­ceive the empire of the whole universe; and I am not sure but I would forfeit my hopes of everlasting salvation if I could but commit a piece-meal murder on her villain, and make him feel but [Page 112] one half, one fiftieth part of that hell which his possession of her has kindled in this breast, and which is at this mo­ment furiously blazing for revenge.

Yet, Charles, what have I to do with this abandoned woman—what is her in­famy to me?—I'll talk no more of her—I'll think no more of her—I'll stab her idea to the heart if it ever rises again to my imagination—I'll—Alas! my dear Melmoth,—I can talk of nothing else—I can think of nothing else; and base, polluted, prostitute as she is—I will not answer, but what she might yet find it possible to argue me into an opinion of her innocence; and persuade me, even against the sense of my own conviction, into such a belief of her purity as would induce me to forget every thing which is past, and urge me to snatch her again to my bosom, with all the passionate phrenzy of a desperate [Page 113] love—O! Melmoth, had you ever seen her—had you ever heard her talk—But I will drop the subject, I will speak of something else; and only observe that the greatest of all curses, is to doat upon the object of our utmost con­tempt; and to feel an invincible fondness in our hearts, for what our reason points out as an everlasting mark of detestation.

I have by this post wrote to my sister, and informed her of my intention to comply immediately with her wishes, and return home; Edwards has orders to prepare every thing for my depar­ture, and in six weeks or a couple of months, I flatter myself with a hope of finding you in high spirits, and in good health. You, my dear Melmoth, and that exalted woman, lady Haversham, shall have the direction of my future life—You are people upon whose friend­ship [Page 114] I can safely rely, and notwithstand­ing all the parade which is made about a knowledge of the world, I am not satisfied but what the integrity of our friends is much more essential to our welfare, than their knowledge of man­kind—But a truce with philosophical reflections.

What you tell me in relation to my sister's refusal of lord Winworth, does not at all surprize me—A woman of eight and twenty with a prodigious for­tune, a fine person, and such a mind as lady Haversham's, cannot fail of hav­ing a number of admirers—But I am satisfied deserving as those admirers may be, she will never think of changing her situation—I know Theodosia posses­ses a delicacy of mind, perhaps, supe­rior to all the rest of her sex; and am sensible, however, she may respect the matrimonial union, that she is no friend [Page 115] to second marriages—She has in confi­dence repeatedly told me, that a heart which is deserving of regard can admit but of one impression; and that she who can love a second time is utterly unworthy of being ever loved at all—Her notions to some may appear a little romantic, but I dare say, Charles, they will never lessen her in any body's esti­mation, whose esteem can be necessary to her peace, or advantageous to her character—This I am sure of at any rate, that they will excite your admira­tion as much as they have done that of

LETTER XIX. Miss LOUISA MILDMAY to Miss HARRIOT BEAUCLERK.

AND have I at last the unspeakable happiness of writing once more to my dear Harriot, does she still ac­knowledge me for her friend; or does she join in the general obloquy which the whole world must naturally throw upon a mysterious absence of above eleven months, at a time too that the most criminal levity of conduct had banished me from the protecting arms of parental affection, and cast me out in the full face of the whole universe, as a disgrace to my sex, and a scandal to my family. O! Harriot, it will be no more than what I expect if you should [Page 117] both despise and detest me—Yet when my story, my melancholy story comes to be related; when you find how basely, how cruelly I have been betrayed; I know your tender heart will bleed at what I have suffered, and I know also that the generosity of your disposition will be sensibly affected if during a period in which I have been most entitled to your pity, I have been materially lessen­ed in your esteem. To begin then at once, know that the specious, the sanc­tified Mrs. Darnel, who had such obli­gations to our family, and in whose house I was to find so certain an asylum, is a fiend of darkness, an instrument of hell, a priestess of destruction.

For the first day or two of my resi­dence at her house, after I was turned out from my father's, she seemed so heartily touched with my misfortune, and so immediately interested in my [Page 118] welfare, that abstracted from the closeness of our relation, she acquired a consi­derable share of my esteem, and I could not help considering her as a woman of unbounded good nature, who was kindly appointed by the pitying hand of Providence to mitigate the severity of my affliction—Actuated by this opinion, I made her acquainted with my whole heart, and determined as she had the character of being extremely sensible, and devout, to regulate my conduct en­tirely by her advice, till I should be happily blest with the forgiveness of my father.

I had not, however, been at her house above three days, when she began to alter her tone a little; instead of la­menting the unhappy step I had taken, as she did first, she spoke of it with more and more indifference; and at last pretty plainly insinuated, that I had [Page 119] erred rather against the severities of custom, than the laws of morality—that the very best women in the kingdom had not always been able to preserve themselves unsullied; and that it was even idle to distress myself so much on account of a slip, which she herself knew would not be in the least prejudi­cial to my fortune. I must confess I was so astonished to hear a woman, of whose delicacy in matters of reputation I entertained the highest opinion, so easily reconciled to an action I consider­ed as criminal, as it was scandalous, and to be no less repugnant to the principles of virtue than the customs of society. I therefore continued silent some mo­ments, hoping that I had miscon­ceived her meaning, and expecting that she would explain herself more to my satisfaction: but here I was totally dis­appointed; for mistaking my silence as a mark of my approbation, she ventured [Page 120] to be still more explicit, and delivered herself to the following purpose, with an air half gay, half serious; yet care­fully attending through the whole, to the various changes of my countenance.

‘Indeed, my dear Miss Mildmay, to be candid with you, I cannot imagine however widely I differ from the sen­timents of the righteous over much; that the indulgence of the passions is any way repugnant to the laws of morality—I shall grant that the indul­gence of them in a manner conforma­ble to the practice of one's country is the most eligible mode; but where people are not married, human nature, as the poet says, will be human nature; and a casual lapse from the rigid rules of form must be sometimes expected. Come my dear,’ continued the un­blushing creature, ‘taking hold of my hand, that Harold is a villain, but if [Page 121] you will be governed by me, your little affair with him shall by no means de­prive you of a good husband. You recollect your old admirer Sir Harry Hastings, Sir Harry passionately loves you, and has followed you up to town, to make another tendre of a heart, which has long been devoted to your service; he is my intimate acquaint­ance, and has in fact requested my assistance, and if you have no objection shall drink tea with us this evening.’

You cannot imagine, my dear Har­riot, what indignation I felt during the whole time of this delicate harangue; yet willing to discover her utmost de­signs, I endeavoured to bridle my impatience till she had finished it. When she concluded, I strove to assume as unembarrassed a tone of voice as I was able, and fixing my eyes with an unremitting attention upon her's, [Page 122] I think this was someting like my reply ‘—When I was free enough, madam, in obedience to the commands of a mother, to take up my residence at your house, I never expected to be insulted with a conversation of this na­ture; I did not scruple to acknowledge that I had been accidentally guilty, but at the same time I was in hopes Mrs. Darnel would good naturedly consider, that I was far from being habitually depraved—How therefore she can so widely mistake my character, or rather how she can act in a manner so unworthy of her own as to become a kind of advocate for dishonour, fills me with an equal degree of surprize and affliction.—When I came here, I ex­pected a friend that would sympathize with my sorrows; not a flatterer that would study to lessen the blackness of my crime. Human nature as, you say, madam, may be human nature; [Page 123] but be assured, notwithstanding the error which I have so recently com­mitted, I have no wishes to gratify by a new sacrifice either of my peace or my character; and that I shall never be so lost to sentiment or shame as to accept the hand of a worthless fellow who was formerly discarded on ac­count of his own profligacy, and who is now mean enough to build his hopes of success upon an opinion of mine. Excuse me Mrs. Darnel—You have a right to receive what company you please in your own house; but con­sider that I am under no necessity of remaining here to be affronted by your visitors—I have other relations, madam, in town, who I doubt not will favour me with protection; and if you will only suffer some body to order a chair I shall ease you directly of all uneasiness on my account.’

[Page 124]Alarmed at a reply, which I dare say from my silence at first, she no way ex­pected, Mrs. Darnel seemed greatly sur­prized that I should put so unaccounta­ble a construction upon her words; if she seemed to speak slightly, she said, of a deviation from the spotless path's of innocence, it was on purpose to restore me to some degree of temper with my­self; and if she had recommended Sir Harry Hastings to my consideration, it was entirely from a solicitude for my welfare, that deserved a very different return from such a severity of animad­version as I had been pleased to distin­guish it with; Sir Harry was a man of good family and large fortune; unex­ceptionable in his person, and for aught she had ever heard to the contrary un­exceptionable also in his manners. On these accounts she did not think him unworthy of my notice; however, since I was so averse to an interview with him, [Page 125] she would take care he should never visit at her house so long as I continued to honour her with my company; and that for the future I might be satisfied she would not drop a single syllable which was capable of giving me the least offence—Adding, that from the unremitting rectitude of her past life there could be no room to suppose she would now become an advocate for dishonour; or betray the cause of that virtue in the decline of her days, which in the giddiest part of her youth she had always regarded as the principal beauty of the female character.

We are all of us, my dear Harriot, ready enough to believe, what we wish may be true; and Mrs. Darnel defend­ed herself with such an appearance of integrity that I was grieved for the tartness of my reply, and begged she would excuse it on account of the di­straction [Page 126] with which my mind must at that time be naturally torn. I then let her into a few passages of Sir Harry's character, particularly his ruining the two Miss Nettervilles; his insolent attempt to run away with myself, for which you know my poor brother would have called him to a severe account had not Mr. Townshend put them both under an arrest; and mentioned some instances of his tyranny to inferiors, that had rendered him either contemptible or de­tested through all the country. Mrs. Darnel affected great surprize at these accounts, declaring she had never heard of any thing but his attempt to run away with me which could be mentioned to his prejudice—"Even of that," says she, ‘I heard but vaguely, I however set it down as a proof of that passion for you, which he still continues to ex­press with the greatest vehemence, and which before I heard your senti­ments, [Page 127] I did not know but the family might be induced to overlook.’

Matters continued entirely to my mind at Mrs. Darnel's, till lady Haver­sham took her leave of me, and went down on the scheme of reconciliation to the Hall. Mrs. Darnel then began to hint something of a concern for Sir Harry, and insinuated, though distantly, a fear, lest the amiable countess should prevail in her brother's favour; and lest after all I should be doomed to the arms of a man who was entitled to nothing but my eternal detestation—I again appeared extremly dissatisfied, she however, apologized, and we were again reconciled; but the night after, Har­riot—the night after—Does not your heart ach with the strongest apprehensions for your poor Louisa?—I know it does—and I even anticipate at this passage [Page 128] the distress which I am sensible you must feel upon my account.

Next morning after breakfast Mrs. Darnel told me she was in a great di­lemma with regard to an engagement, which she had annually at Sir William Nicholson's in the next street; ‘You must know my dear,’ says she, ‘Sir William and his lady always celebrate the anniversary of their marriage, and for twenty years I have never been absent on that occasion—Now I would not for the world leave you alone—and yet I don't know how to get excused if I stay away from Sir William's, this is the day, and there is to be a prodigious croud of company there in the even­ing.’ My dear Mrs. Darnel, return­ed I, you quite distress me with your civility—You must on no condition stay from your friends, for I shall be quite miserable if I think I interfere in the [Page 129] least with your engagements; I insist therefore absolutely on your going—and—"Well, well," interrupted she, ‘since you are so good I'll go,—but depend upon it I shall be at home by eleven in the evening.’ The stating of an hour for her return occasioned a fresh dispute; but at last she set out, ordering a chariot, which she had kindly set up on my account the day or two be­fore, notwithstanding the slenderness of her fortune, to come at twelve.

As I was no way inclined to sleep I sat up in the back parlour, reading Cla­rissa Harlowe; and had just got into that passage where the vile Lovelace at­tempts the sanctity of her chamber at midnight, in the house of that detesta­ble monster Sinclair. I don't know how it was, but I felt an instinctive kind of terror, when I came to this place—I could not go on with the story, [Page 130] and began to reflect, that, if any body was to break into our house I should be in a very dangerous situation—It was now almost one o'clock, and not a single soul at home besides myself, and the cook; my Sally, and Mrs. Darnel's wo­men had received leave to be at a dance with some servants in the neighbour­hood; and the men were attending the chariot at Sir William Nicholson's to bring home their mistress—The time; the place; a remote street, bordering on the fields of Marybone; and, above all, the subject which I had been just reading, served to fill me with the strongest ap­prehensions; and I was going more than once to call the cook to sit with me; but that I was fearful the poor woman might be in a doze, from excessive fatigue, as she was house-maid also, and therefore considered it cruel to disturb her—At last I heard somebody unlock the street door on the outside; and na­turally [Page 131] supposing it to be my Sally, and Mrs. Darnel's woman, who had now re­turned from their evening's entertain­ment, I rang the bell; when who should enter the room, to my inexpressible astonishment, but the villain Hastings, wrapped up in a large surtout, and car­rying a dark lanthorn in his hand, which gleamed an inconceivable horror round the whole apartment—I screamed out, you may naturally imagine, at the sight of so unexpected and suspicious a visitor; and called the cook as loud as I could to come up stairs instantly, at the same time ringing the bell with the greatest violence; but whether she was too fast a-sleep to hear me, or whether she was privy to the designs of her in­famous mistress, I know not; this only I know, that she never once made her appearance, and that I was left entirely to the brutality of a wretch whom I [Page 132] knew to be equally destitute of shame and of humanity.

Finding myself thus barbarously be­trayed, I assumed what spirits I could, and asked the midnight ruffian by what authority he had dared to break into my chamber at such an hour, in such a disguise; and threatened him with the utmost resentment, not only of the laws, but my family. He had now laid down his lanthorn, and unbuttoned his surtout; and was striving, by all the affectation of the deepest respect, to silence my excla­mations; declaring that the happiness of his whole life depended upon me, and that nothing but the dictates of a desperate love could possibly urge him to break in thus violently on my repose— ‘Consider, ever beautiful Miss Mild­may,’ cried the monster on his knee, ‘consider how long and how passionate­ly [Page 133] I have loved you—Recollect also, madam, that you are now thrown out by the inhumanity of a relentless father, and the perfidy of a profligate villain, upon an inhospitable world, which, so far from commiserating your situation, will even feast its malevo­lence with your distress—To guard you from the ruin which must inevi­tably burst upon your head in these melancholy circumstances, behold these faithful arms—My fortune and my soul are your's if you condescend to accept of them; and I shall think myself eternally obliged, if the soli­citude which I manifest for your feli­city may be able to influence the na­tural generosity of your temper to prevent the everlasting destruction of mine.’

As he pronounced this ridiculous speech with every seeming appearance [Page 134] of sincerity, I suppressed the indigna­tion which I should have otherwise dis­covered at his presumption in joining my father's name to so opprobrious an epithet, in hopes that I should be able to turn his own arts upon him, and draw some advantages from all this af­fectation of generosity and affection—I therefore told him, that he had taken an odd way to testify his regard for me, by breaking thus at midnight into my apartment; and that the mysterious manner of his intrusion looked as if he came with some intentions which were totally different from the ends of this passionate protestation—On which ac­count I begged he would immediately retire; and hinted, that, if he still con­tinued his sentiments in my favour, he need not despair of being heard to his satisfaction in the morning.

[Page 135]"A thousand thanks, my angel" re­turned the wretch, kissing my hand with a wildness of vehemence ‘for this con­descending goodness—Yet why, my adorable Miss Mildmay, if I am to receive any marks of your benignity in the morning, need you now scruple to bless me with some little, some distant token of your approbation?—Where a man doats to distraction, like me, an hour's delay is a whole eternity of torture—Shorten, there­fore, the time, I beseech you, madam; and encrease the greatness of the obli­gation, by a generous alacrity in be­stowing it.’

He was going on in this manner, my dear Harriot, and even proceeding to kiss my cheek, when, summoning all the fortitude of my soul, I seized him by the breast, and threw the wretch from me above half the length of the room— [Page 136] "Despicable villain," cried I at the same time, ‘unhand me; or, by the holy host of heaven, this moment is your last.’ I was really frantic, Har­riot—I saw myself betrayed, and had seized a penknife that lay accidentally open on the reading table, absolutely determined to put my threats in execu­tion if he presumed to affront me with another approach—Finding me so greatly enraged he seemed totally at a loss how to behave, and for some mo­ments stood musing in a state of mingled surprize and irresolution.

Perceiving him thus embarrassed at my behaviour, I determined immediate­ly to alarm the neighbourhood; and, with that view, snatched up one of the candles, thinking, before he recovered from his consternation, to reach the street-door; but the cautious villain was too well prepared; he had five other [Page 137] ruffians planted in the fore-parlour, who were to seize me in case I attempted any thing of this kind; and to carry me through a little garden at the back of the house, into a lane that led to the fields; there it seems a coach was in waiting to hurry me off; and the scheme was so settled, that two of these five should ride withinside the vehicle, to prevent my screaming; while the three others were to be posted armed without, for fear, after all their precau­tions, I might find some opportunity of calling for assistance, and excite the humanity of any accidental passengers to an attack.

You cannot conceive, my dear Har­riot, when I quitted the room, and found Sir Harry no way inclined to follow me; how my heart throbbed with the expectation of counteracting [Page 138] all Mrs. Darnel's barbarous machina­tions; and the hope of being able to engage the compassion of some charita­ble neighbour for my protection till day-light; but when the other wretches rushed out of the street-parlour, and barred my passage to the door, I was next to absolutely distracted—I scream­ed with a violence that almost tore my head to pieces; and, losing all my reso­lution at once, I fell upon my knees, crying out, ‘Spare me, dear gentlemen, spare me—I am a poor unfortunate creature, cast out from my family and friends—and I conjure you, by the tender mercies of the living God, not to assist the infamous purposes of that monster Sir Harry Hastings.’

"Madam," replied one of the fel­lows, whose appearance was superior to the rest, ‘Sir Harry is a fine gentle­man, [Page 139] has long loved you—and means you nothing but what is strictly ho­nourable; remove your apprehensions therefore.’ —

"O! Sir," interrupted I, ‘whence this violence, if he means nothing but what is honourable? Why am I, at such an hour as this, beset in my own lodgings, and treated with all the illiberal free­doms of a brothel-like audacity? If you are gentlemen, you will surely snatch a poor unhappy young creature from destruction, who has never done any human being the least injury: or, if you are men whose necessities have obliged you to undertake an office repugnant to the natural goodness of your hearts, you must surely perform a virtuous action for reward with as much readiness as you can consent to the perpetration of a monstrous crime. [Page 140] —Hear me then, dear gentlemen, I beseech you; conduct me but to lady Haversham's, in Grosvenor Square—Lodge me but safely in the next house; and I solemnly protest, before God, that, let the wretch who has employed you for this barbarous purpose pro­mise what he will, you shall receive double that sum, and a thousand thanks into the bargain, for consult­ing your own safety, and disappoint­ing his infamous designs.’

I would have expostulated farther with the savages, my dear Harriot, but the vile Sir Harry now made his ap­pearance; and asked on what account they delayed the execution of their plan; endeavouring to raise me from the ground at the same time, and ordering the rest to assist in carrying me to the coach—It was in vain I struggled—in vain I [Page 141] shrieked for help—the monsters obeyed his commands with the most implicit readiness; and my spirits were at last so exhausted by the sharpness of my terror, and the fatigue of my resistance, that I sunk lifeless on the floor.—In this state they easily carried me to the coach; and it was ten o'clock next, or, more pro­perly speaking, that morning, before I recovered my senses sufficiently to recol­lect any one circumstance of the whole transaction.

About ten o'clock, however, I came a little to myself, and found that I was in a very handsome bed, that the room was extremely well furnished, and that there were two female attendants with hartshorn, and a number of other resto­ratives, ready to administer every assist­ance which might be necessary for my recovery. From these women, who [Page 142] were Sir Harry's house-keeper and her daughter, I learned that I was brought to this house about four o'clock in the morning; that several times on the road Sir Harry and his companions were in violent apprehensions for my life; that the moment they arrived I was consign­ed over to the care of the women; and that, till within the last two hours, I had been in the strongest hysterics imaginable. The housekeeper added, that she was sure her master must love me with the sincerest affection, for he had been like a distracted man on my account; and had repeatedly sworn to lay violent hands on himself, if my indisposition should be productive of any fatal conse­quences. As the women seemed to be not only communicative but good-na­tured, weak as I was, I made them ac­quainted with their master's conduct, told them my name and family, and of­fered to reward them above their utmost [Page 143] expectations if they could, by any fortu­nate contrivance, facilitate my escape.—To this they replied, that they should be very willing to oblige me; but that their lives would not be safe if they acted in the least contrary to the will of their master—The youngest, particularly, thought it surprizing that I should wish to quit so fine a gentleman as Sir Harry, who had so great an estate, and who was ready, she was sure, to marry me the moment I thought proper to give my consent. From this, and some other expressions which dropped from the daughter, I found that she herself was in love with the wretch; and consequently thought it wonderful how any body else could mention him with the smallest in­dication either of aversion or contempt.

Disappointed in my hopes of escap­ing by means of the women, and find­ing them entirely at the devotion of [Page 144] their profligate master, I desired they would help me up, not knowing how soon they might leave me to the monster's brutality. They complied, but reluctant­ly; observing, that, after what I had un­dergone, rest was absolutely necessary for me; and declaring that they were certain I must be greatly indisposed. Indeed, Harriot, they said true; I was extremely ill; and, could I have removed my apprehensions of Sir Harry, I should have followed their advice with the utmost satisfaction. When they had dressed me, or, more properly speaking, when they restored my dress to a little order, they led me into the dining-room, and prevailed upon me to swallow two dishes of tea, and a dish of choco­late: after this they withdrew; but the daughter returned in a few minutes after, to tell me that Sir Harry was coming to attend me; and the message was scarcely delivered before the horrid [Page 145] fellow actually entered with an air of forced complaisance, very visibly mixed with some degree of confusion, and a great deal of malignity.

I was sitting in a great chair when he entered; and, thinking it best to betray as little fear as possible, I fixed my eyes upon him with an intenseness of deter­mined indignation; and asked him how long I was to remain a prisoner in his house? To which he replied, till I wanted an inclination to quit it.— ‘But, madam,’ says he, seating himself on the opposite side of the fire-place, ‘I am now come to have a little serious con­versation with you; and, as the nature of this conversation will be of the last importance to your own happiness, I hope, upon that account, you will favour me with your attention.—From the closeness of our neighbourhood in the country, my dear Miss Mildmay, [Page 146] it is impossible but what some parti­culars of my conduct must have reached your family that were no way advantageous to my character—Yet from the same closeness of neigh­bourhood, you yourself must have heard that I declined all alliance with many young ladies of distinction, merely on account of my attachment for you; declaring that so long as you continued single, I never should think of any other woman—You also know, madam, that when you thought proper to reject my addresses, your whole house allowed my pro­posal to be extremely disinterested; and acknowledged that I did not want for love, however I might be deficient in desert. That love, madam, in­stead of being extinguished by re­pulse, has, on the contrary, acquired additional force from opposition; and has driven me upon expedients in [Page 147] which I have acquired nothing but disgrace—It has forced me to the meanness of keeping spies continually about your person; and your very woman, Sally, in whom you so con­fidently trusted—nay, madam, don't start—is nothing better than one of my instruments.’

‘As long however as you remained absolutely disengaged, I bore my own rejection, and even the shame which resulted from my unsuccessful attempt to carry you off before, with some tollerable share of temper; but the moment that cursed Harold was de­clared the happy man, I determined, let the consequence be what it would, to prevent the celebration of your union; and had not a rupture happen­ed otherwise between you, I was re­solved you never should be his, tho' I even got him pistoll'd on his way [Page 148] to the church—When you were sent up to town I followed you instantly; and established my interest so effectu­ally with Mrs. Darnel, that she con­sented to my carrying you off from her house if there was no likelihood of my succeeding by any other means—There was no likelihood; on the contrary, lady Haversham set off to bring about a reconciliation between her family and your's; and the thing may be concluded done, for every body knows that woman is irresista­ble.’

‘Such, madam, is the history of your present captivity—Now to what must follow—After having gone these lengths to get you into my possession, it cannot be supposed that the power of man will ever prevail upon me to give you up—Nor, indeed, is it likely that any body will be able to discover [Page 149] you, since Mrs. Darnel's own interest, as well as her reputation, must oblige her to account for your absence in a manner widely different from the truth—For these reasons, therefore, madam, I leave it to the determination of your own good sense, whether it will not be much better for you to think of uniting chearfully with me; than urge me to the disagreeable necessity of exerting a power, which, however unjustly it may be obtained, neverthe­less places your destiny entirely in my hands—Believe me, Miss Mildmay, I love you with the most passionate extravagance, yet with the nicest sen­timent of honour—If I did not in­tend honourably, what could prevent me, in a house where my will is as absolute as fate, from gratifying my inclination in any manner I might wish?—But, I don't know how it is—culpable as I may have been with [Page 150] regard to others, there is something about you which always excited my deepest veneration; and awes me at this instant, when I am in possession of your person, from entertaining any inten­tion injurious to your character—I have talked a great deal, and shall now acquaint you with my final de­termination in a few words. From the purity of my views, madam, and the impossibility of your ever escap­ing from this house, I am in hopes that your generosity and your good­ness will induce you to accept of the offer which I again repeat of my hand and fortune. Make a merit, therefore, madam, of necessity; and consent to my propositions with a good grace—for be assured your refusal shall ex­cuse you nothing, as I have a clergy­man already in the house, who is not to be terrified from his duty by screams, and will perform the neces­sary [Page 151] ceremony were you even strug­gling in the pangs of death, and he himself to be destined the next mo­ment to inevitable destruction.’

Inhuman, barbarous, remorseless villain!—O! Harriot, don't you wonder at my patience in listening so tamely to so long and so audacious an address? But, indeed, my dear, the odious man terrified me to the last degree by the excess of his confidence; and, in proportion as it was proper for me to interrupt him, I found myself less and less able to break in upon his horrid harangue—But a mo­tion which he made to seize my hand roused me instantly to an exertion of my spirits; and, spurning him from me with all the disdain I could possibly assume, yet still possessing my recollection, I spoke to him in the following manner: ‘—Hear me, Hastings—Execrable monster hear me—Nor imagine, be­cause [Page 152] I have been infamously betray­ed into your power, that any thing can fright away my reluctance to your person, or my hatred of your heart—Know then, that, should instant death be the consequence of my refusal, no force on earth shall ever make me yours—I always despised, I always detested you—and this last outrage or which you have been guilty, gives such an everlasting edge to my aver­sion, that, I if retain in the next world any sense of what has passed in this, I shall still consider you through all eternity with the same unremitting contempt, and the same unremitting detestation—What, Sir, do you suppose that the more reason I have for my abhorrence, the more I should relax in my resentments; or think that, if your addresses were repulsed when I thought you infinitely less atrocious, there is a possibility of suc­ceeding [Page 153] now, when you are covered with aggravated crimes? No, Hastings, no—The very supposition of such a cir­cumstance is a fresh argument of your unworthiness, and only serves to render you additionally odious to my imagi­nation—Free me, therefore, from this infamous house, I desire you—Free me instantly from this house—for, by the mighty God of heaven, the hour that makes me your's puts an end to my life, and may possibly endanger the safety of your own.’

"Upon my word, madam," replied the insulting wretch— ‘this tone of voice is perfectly tragical; you really talk this admirably—and, if your fa­vourite Harold was not to the full as great a profligate as myself, I should think it impossible for you to over­look the smallest deviation from the paths of virtue—But I appeal to the [Page 154] rectitude of your judgment against the preposession of your heart—and, since you force me to put the question, let me ask you, which is most entitled to your regard, the man who has not only ruined, but forsaken you; or the man, who, with all the obloquy of that ruin upon your head, is willing to take you to his arms, and is ready even to think himself happy in a par­ticipation with your disgrace?’

O! Harriot, don't you pity me, don't you bleed for me here?—Stained and polluted as I was, how could I reply to the equity of this reproach?—I felt it, as Hamlet says, in my heart's core—in my heart of heart's—and the propriety of it struck me instantly dumb—O! how mean, how despicable is guilt, when it is even incapable to retort an insult from the unworthy, and shrinks before the judgement seat of vice with as great a [Page 155] degree of timidity as if it was imme­diately arraigned before the awful tribu­nal of virtue!—That Harold too—but save me, Harriot—I must not suffer myself to think—of that—I cannot find an epithet to distinguish him by—my reason is impatient to brand him with the most detestable—but this infatuated bosom eternally beats in his behalf, and, though I strive to despise and abhor him, yet I feel I passionately love.

As I continued in a state of silent confusion at this unanswerable retort of Sir Harry's, the wretch rang the bell with a determined air, and, the house­keeper entering to know his commands—"Mrs. Lawson," says he, ‘desire the gentlemen in the parlour to walk up.’ The woman withdrew, and, before I could recollect myself suffici­ently to ask him for what purpose they were to walk up, three of the fellows [Page 156] who had been concerned in carrying me off the night before, attended by a most bold looking man, in a clergyman's habit, were in the room. This was a sight which I was utterly unable to withstand; my brain was instantly on fire; I screamed with a wildness of di­straction; and, just as the clergyman was coming up to me, I sunk down lifeless on the floor. What became of me for six whole weeks I know not—Mrs. Lawson tells me, that I was in such strong hysterics, after the presence of the men had terrified me into a swoon, that they were under a necessity of giv­ing over their purpose for that time; and that it was with the greatest difficulty she, her daughter, and two of the house­maids, could remove me to my room. Here it seems the violent agitation of mind, and the excessive fatigue which I had undergone, threw me into a fortu­nate fever, which deprived me of my [Page 157] senses; and, though the monster Hast­ings omitted nothing which could possi­bly tend to my recovery, yet it was full six weeks before I was brought to my recollection. About this time, the na­tural goodness of my constitution tri­umphing over the fury of my disorder, I became somewhat sensible, and was called back to the pungent reflections of a sensibility, which made me look with an inconceivable envy upon madness.

During the dangerous part of my ill­ness, Mrs. Lawson informed me, that her wretch of a master was absolutely frantic; that he frequently tore his hair, and stamped upon the ground with all the agitation of a bedlamite, swearing he would not survive me if I happened to die; and raving that the grave should at least unite him to me, should there be no possibility of a union with me by any other means. Though nothing was [Page 158] ever more odious to me than the thoughts of this fellow's passion, yet it was very fortunate that he loved me to so preposterous an excess—for his brutal companions, before I fell dangerous ill, being no strangers to the crime of your unhappy friend, were continually ridi­culing his intention of marrying a crea­ture who had already parted with her honour; and were as often advising him to profit by the opportunity which Mrs. Darnel had put so luckily in his hands—They assured him, that a woman who had been familiar with one man, would make no mighty scruple to be familiar with a second—they mentioned my hatred of him as the greatest of all affectations; and insisted that nothing could be so contemptible as his stooping to accept of a woman for his wife whom another had already possessed as his mistress. These arguments Mrs. Law­son hinted would wind him up some­times [Page 159] to a downright determination of proceeding to the most absolute viola­tions—he seemed fearful of being de­spised by his friends—and frequently talked of pursuing their advice—but, in the midst of all his resolutions, the desire which he had to make me his irrevo­cably, and the dread he was under lest I should commit some instant act of de­speration on myself if he went to such shocking extremities, prevented him from executing his horrid design; so that when he found I was really in danger, every thought of an illicit na­ture was immediately sacrificed to his concern for my recovery—By this means, my dear Harriot, I very happily escaped every actual dishonour; and, tho' his detestable passion was the source of such exquisite distress, still it was that very passion which was the ultimate cause of my preservation.

[Page 160]I will not, my dear Harriot, trespass on your patience by a minute detail of all I suffered in this odious house during a period of seven months—Suffice it, that I was scarcely recovered from my first fit of illness, but a fresh attempt to force me into a marriage brought on a relapse, which saved me from a world of the most insupportable persecution, and changed the detestable importunities of Hastings into a fresh concern for my life—This second interposition of Pro­vidence, for I consider it as such in my favour, lasted three months—and the wretch was so miserable at that time on my account, that he expressed a resolu­tion of using no means but humility and confinement to work upon my temper for the future—In about three months time I was again tollerably recovered, and beginning again to dread some law­less attempt from Sir Harry, when one of these common, yet unexpected acci­dents, [Page 161] which are sometimes productive of events which cannot be brought about by the utmost exertion of human wisdom, set me free from captivity, and opened a new scene in my history, perhaps not less extraordinary than any of the former passages.

Sir Harry, and some of his fellow-liber­tines, had been making merry below stairs one day, (for I should have told you, that, during the whole time of my imprison­ment, I never once eat a morsel out of those rooms which were particularly set apart for my use) and sat up, according to custom, so extremely late, that none of them retired sober to their rooms.—I myself heard some of them very noisy on the stairs when they broke up, and there­fore could give a probable guess at their situations.—I don't know what was the matter with me, but that night I would not pull off my cloaths, and only threw [Page 162] myself across the bed, to indulge myself in one of those melancholly reveries which are generally pleasing to the unfortunate:—be­tween three and four, however, I grew a little heavy, and had just began to doze, when Mrs. Lawson and her daughter, who always lay in an adjoining bed in the same room, as well to prevent me from any possibility of escaping, as to take care that my apartments were not approached by any of her master's friends, gave a vio­lent shriek, and, jumping out of bed with the utmost precipitation, exclaimed, that the house was in flames. It was now about the beginning of October, and wanted a considerable while to day. I started up, and found the matter just as they represented it, the fire blazing fiercely through the windows; and the servants, who were by this time alarmed, were some of them unlocking the street door, and unbolting the parlour windows, while [Page 163] others were busied in assisting their intox­icated masters out of bed.—This was an opportunity, my dear Harriot, not to be neglected: already dressed, I took ad­vantage of the general confusion, and, slipping out in nothing but a black silk night-gown, while every body's attention was employed on something else, I gained the road, dark as it was, and trudged on without knowing, or indeed caring, which way I went, so I could but get far enough from that detested Hastings.—The only apprehension I laboured under, was that of being pursued and overtaken by some of the wretch's emissaries, the moment he became acquainted with my flight. But, as if Providence was particularly deter­mined to rescue me from his hands, I was overtaken by a ministring angel, in the humble shape of a gardener's wife, who was singing with all the chearfulness of a benevolent mind, and going with a cart­load of vegetables to one of the London [Page 164] markets.—I addressed myself to her at once, told her that I was an unfortunate young woman, who had been carried off from my friends by force about seven months before; and that the villain's house, who had taken me away, being that moment on fire, I had seized the oppor­tunity, and made my escape; I therefore begged her protection, and assured her I would make it worth her while, if she would be kind enough to take me along with her, as I was fearful of being pur­sued, and carried back. The good wo­man, who had ordered a boy that drove the horses to stop the moment I spoke to her, replied, that whoever I was, I ap­peared to be in distress, and that, she said, was a sufficient claim to her assistance at any time. So saying, she let down a little ladder from the cart, and desiring the boy to help me up, I was seated by herself in an instant. As she had a lanthorn by her in the vehicle, she could now have a to­lerable [Page 165] idea of my person; and, after looking at me for a minute or so, in the least offensive manner she could assume, she stood up, and taking off a warm jo­seph, in which she was buttoned up her­self, "Come, madam," said she, ‘this is a cold morning; you don't seem much acquainted with this way of travelling; therefore let me help you on with this coat. Indeed you must have it,’ (per­ceiving I made a motion to decline being obliged at her expence) ‘and you must let me tie this handkerchief about your head too.—Poor soul! how you trem­ble—but have a stout heart—I'll be sworn, from your looks, that you are a good creature; and, depend upon it, you shan't want for a friend, while my name is Deborah Dobson.’

O Harriot, how was I charm'd with the uncultivated benignity of this worthy rustic!—a tear of gratitude rose instantly [Page 166] into my eye; and all I could say was, "Good Mrs. Dobson, I thank you." We had not rode above a mile from Hampstead, for there, my dear, it was that Hastings had his house, when the honest, obliging creature's joseph and hand­kerchief preserved me almost miraculously; for Sir Harry having missed me in a very little time, had dispatched servants every way, I suppose, in search of me, not at all attending to the safety of his house; and two of them now came up to the cart, and enquired of Mrs. Dobson, if she had met any young woman on the road; Mrs. Dobson replied, she had not; and the fel­lows pursued their course furiously on to­wards town, saying, that probably some­body on horseback, or in a post-chaise, had taken her up, since it was impossible for her to walk so far in the time.

You can't think how my heart flutter'd, my dear Harriot, at this rencounter, nor ima­gine [Page 167] what a degree of satisfaction the wor­thy woman expressed at my fortunate es­cape. "You see, Madam," says she, ‘how lucky it was that you consented to be wrapped up;—that joseph is an old companion of mine; and I shall love it as long as I live, for being the means of your deliverance.’ In this manner we reached Whitechapel, I think she call­ed it, where there is a market kept; and where she had a sister, she told me, a wi­dow woman, who kept a snug little house, and would afford me all the accommo­dation in her power.—Accordingly she led me directly to her sister's, who, it seems, was a considerable dealer in butter and eggs, and was now preparing to set out upon the business of the day, a most comfortable breakfast of coffee being al­ready on the table, in a neat stone kitchen, amply furnished with pewter and brass, of so shining a complexion, as bore the [Page 168] strongest testimony imaginable to the clean­liness of the owner.

"Molly," says Mrs. Dobson to her sister upon entering, ‘I have brought a stranger with me to town this morning: here is a young lady who was carried off from her friends by some scoundrel about seven months ago, and kept all that time at the villain's house at Hampstead. The house, thank God, was a-fire as we passed by; and the young lady, while all the family was busy about other affairs, slipped out, overtook my cart, and here I have brought her to be taken care of, 'till she can send to her relations.’

"God bless her dear soul," returned the other, ‘I shall take as much care of her, as if she was my own child.—I warrant her poor father and mother have felt many an aching heart upon her ac­count [Page 169] —but come, Madam, sit down; let us have a dish of coffee, and then we'll shew you to a bed, where you may rest a little, after the fatigue of your journey.’ So saying, she helped me off with my joseph and handkerchief; while a pretty, modest-looking young woman, about eighteen, who appeared to be her daughter, kindly reached me a chair, and seemed studious for opportunities to oblige me.

After breakfast the two sisters, preparing to go away, recommended me to the care of Sally, the young woman of whom I have been just speaking, and wished me, in a very affectionate manner, a good morning. Before they withdrew, however, I begged to speak to my worthy friend, Mrs. Dobson, in a private room: the good woman readily indulged my request; and, if I might judge by the benignity which enlightened her honest countenance, [Page 170] she came with the more readiness, from a supposition that I stood in farther need of her services. When we were alone, ‘My dear Mrs. Dobson,’ says I, ‘you have eternally obliged me; you have been my preserver—my guardian angel—but I shall be the most miserable creature in the world, unless you kindly accept this trifle (endeavouring to squeeze five gui­neas into her hand) for a pair of gloves.’ "Madam," replied the generous Mrs. Dobson, in a stile much above her condi­tion) ‘I am no way sorry that you make me this offer, because it confirms my good opinion of you—but I should think very meanly of myself, if I was capa­ble of taking a reward for performing a common act of humanity.—God bless you, my sweet young lady,’ continued she, kissing my cheek, ‘and send you a happy meeting with your friends.—While you stay here, every thing will be at your service, I dare say; and, humble [Page 171] as we are in the world, be assured you have fallen among people, who would rather confer obligations, than receive them.’ Oh, Harriot, these are the persons whom your great ones look upon with contempt—these are the persons whom the insolence of the opulence or pomp so frequently considers as little su­perior to the merely animal creation: yet see by what souls they are informed!—The mind of this woman, my dear, would have done honour to a coronet; yet how many women are there with co­ronets, who would shed the smallest de­gree of credit upon her cart?

After the departure of the two indus­trious sisters, Sally, to whose care I was consigned, advised me, in a very pretty manner, to lie down, insisting upon helping me to undress, and beg­ging I would consider myself at home in their family. I complied with Sally's [Page 172] obliging intreaties, and accordingly went to bed; but, alas! my dear, I awoke in a high fever; and was actually delirious before the good young woman's mother returned from market. By the excess of the worthy people's tenderness, and care of an excellent apothecary, who, it seems, attended that admirable institution call­ed the Magdalen, about which you and I have so frequently talked in the coun­try, I was, in as short a time as possi­ble, recovered from my illness;—but, though my health was re-established, my mind was totally unhinged.—The numberless distresses which I had of late sustained, joined to the conscious­ness of having been the original author of every misfortune myself, was too much for me. Ignorant whether my brother was living or dead—satisfied that my poor father and mother must be torn by the sharpest of all anxieties—and convinced that my Harriot herself must have given me up as a lost aban­doned [Page 173] creature, I was continually raving about my fall, and wishing for some asylum, where I might waste out the remainder of my days in penitence for my sin. Instead, therefore, of desiringing to write to those who would interest themselves in my behalf, I looked upon the whole world as my irreconcileable ene­my; yet, though I incessantly raved, I was, nevertheless, apparently calm, and perfectly consistent. It was in vain that poor Mrs. Dobson, the honest woman, her sister, and the whole family, opposed my resolution of entering the Magdalen; it was in vain that they assured me of a perpetual asylum with them—I conti­nued inflexible; and what was the ab­solute result of my delirium, they, who could naturally judge by nothing but appearances, set down as the conse­quence of premeditated determination; so that at last they consented, and I was received, though with some essential deviations, from the customary mode [Page 174] of accepting Penitents, the good apo­thecary managing matters with as much delicacy as could be wished. I have since, however, learned, that, had any of Ha­stings's people remained about Hamp­stead, to satisfy Mrs. Dobson's enqui­ries; or could she have prevailed on me to give any account of myself after my illness, I never should have entered this place. But Sir Harry's house, it seems, being entirely burnt down, the whole family was removed, before her enqui­ries began; and I was so strenuously bent upon my scheme, that I evaded an answer to her questions to myself, with a degree of cunning almost wonderful in my circumstances.

I have now, my dear Harriot, been in this house above three months, and find that my little understanding is as well established as my health.—I have, therefore, employed myself for some [Page 175] time in drawing up the foregoing ac­count for your information, and submit it entirely to your own discretion, either to conceal it, or to lay it before my re­lations. My friend, Mrs. Dobson, and her sister, with their good-natured niece and daughter, visit me at every conve­nient opportunity; and I have now made the worthy people acquainted with the history of my misfortunes, though I have not yet informed them either of my betrayer's name, or the name of my own family; and, what is still more, I have perswaded Sally's mother to accept of fifty guineas, which I had in my purse, for all her trouble and expence; and Mrs. Dobson has promised to wear a ring for my sake, but not 'till she sees me out of this house.—Somehow, worthy as these people are, they look upon public penance as disreputable—perhaps, according to the modes of this country, it may be so; but what, in [Page 176] fact, is custom, where conscience is sole­ly to determine upon virtues and upon crimes?—It is true, if my imagination had not been disturbed, I had never dreamt of entering into a place, parti­cularly dedicated to the public penitence of prostitution:—Yet, alas, Harriot, how am I better than the unhappy poor creatures, whom the pinching hand of necessity, or the poignant stings of re­morse, have brought to the same salu­tary, yet humiliating habitation?—Have I not violated the sacred laws of virtue?—Have I not blasted my reputation?—Have I not torn a father's heart with unutterable anguish?—Have I not steeped the pillow of an excellent mo­ther in despair?—And may not the generous youth, my brother, be long since murdered on my account?—O save me, Harriot, from that dread­ful supposition—Snatch me, if possible, from my fears upon this occasion—or [Page 177] my portion must be distraction without end.—Gracious God! what a wretch do I appear, on the smallest recollection!—And shall such a creature as I, imagine she is any ways lessened, by mingling with those who, like herself, have sacri­ficed the dignity of their sex, and the honour of their families?—No, Har­riot, this is the properest habitation for me now—Here meditation, as the poet says, may find room even to madness—And here the streaming eye of a heart-directed contrition, may possibly wash away the stains of guilt, and induce the awful Father of Mercies to overlook my crimes.—But my poor parents—my noble-minded brother—O Harriot, if I yet retain any share in your remem­brance, write to me instantly—I shall not close my eyes, till the return of the post.—A letter directed to Mrs. Car­ter's, my kind hostess, in Whitechapel, for Charlotte Windham, (the name which [Page 178] I assumed in the unsettled state of my mind, to prevent my family from re­ceiving any farther disgrace) will be im­mediately forwarded to the lost unhappy wretch, who possessed the first place in your friendship, when she was

LETTER XX. Sir ROBERT HAROLD, to CHARLES MELMOTH, Esq.

OH Melmoth, my Louisa is inno­cent—her account is authenticat­ed by the strongest of all testimonies—the acknowledgment of Hastings him­self; and the villain has, by this time, probably, attoned with his life for all the tortures of her bosom, and all the agonies of mine.—I have just reached this place; and have sat down, while a little vessel is getting ready to sail with me for Dover, to send you a cursory account of particulars, lest any accident should prevent me from being with you in London as early as the post.

[Page 180]I had just received lady Haversham's copy of Louisa's affecting history, which you sent me with your last, when, all life and spirits, I dressed for the opera, and happened to be introduced into a box, where an English gentleman was sitting alone, with whom I fell into so familiar a conversation, that I accepted a proposal which he made, of eating a bit of supper at a tavern, after the per­formance; and this the more readily, as his appearance bore an indication of fa­shion, and as, in the course of our chat, he mentioned his being intimate with two or three gentlemen of my acquaintance.

When the opera was over, we retired to one of the best houses in the neigh­bourhood of the theatre; where, after drinking two or three glasses of Bur­gundy, he mentioned that his name was Sir Harry Hastings, and that he had a seat in the county of Oxford.—I need [Page 181] not tell you, that this information set me instantly on fire. I was just going to break out, and to demand satisfaction for his outrages to Louisa, when, re­collecting it would be best to hear his own account of matters—for fear, after all, that Miss Mildmay might draw up a story to answer her own purposes, and trespass a little upon veracity, to exte­nuate the infamy of her flight. With this view, I asked Sir Harry, if he was acquainted with the Mildmays, as I knew something of a gentleman, who had paid his addresses to a young lady of that family.— ‘Acquainted with them!’ replied Sir Harry; ‘yes, I am perfectly acquainted with them; and it is, in a great measure, on account of that very young lady, that I have quitted England.—You must know, Sir,’ continued the com­municative baronet, ‘that I am a near neighbour of the Mildmays, and have, [Page 182] for above four years, entertained a passion of the most extravagant na­ture for their daughter—but some­how, though my fortune was as good as any other admirer's, and my pro­posals much more advantageous, still some freedoms which I had taken with the women, created unsurmount­able objections to my character, and my addresses were rejected with a de­gree of disrespect that gave me no little mortification. Stung with re­sentment at the cavalier manner in which I was treated, and burning also to obtain Miss Mildmay, I made a fruitless attempt to carry her off.—In some time after the failure of this design, one Sir Robert Harold, (possibly the gentleman you mean, sir,) commenced an acquaintance at Bath with Miss Mildmay, and work­ed himself so successfully into her af­fections, that a day was set apart for [Page 183] the celebration of their nuptials, though this happy lover was, to the full, as great a profligate as myself. The family, however, paid dear for the preference which they gave this gentleman, for, before the wedding day, Sir Robert found means to gain the last favour from Miss Mildmay; and a quarrel happening between them immediately after, the intend­ed bridegroom fairly took his leave, and left the disdainful Louisa to feel, in turn, every sting of disappointment, and every pungency of disgrace.’

‘Miss Mildmay on this was instantly sent to town, to the house of a re­lation, one Mrs. Darnel; and, as I had my spies continually at work, I found out at once the place of her destination, and followed her instant­ly, being still so ridiculously besotted, that her affair with Harold no way [Page 184] lessened either the excess of my love, or the extravagance of my venera­tion. In fact, what would have damp­ed the ardour of any other man's pas­sion, only served to increase the fer­vour of mine; so that, instead of thinking to possess her on the same terms with that lucky dog Harold, I was uncommonly desirous of mak­ing her mine for ever. I wanted to be sure of her; and, notwithstanding I had a thousand times ridiculed other fellows, for scandalously stooping to patch up a cracked reputation, still I went on, as if her character had been unblemished; and felt infinitely more uneasiness on account of her prepossession for the destroyer of her honour, than for her actual deviation from the sentiments of virtue.—But I beg your pardon,’ cried Hastings, interrupting himself; ‘I am trespassing on your leisure, by a dull repetition [Page 185] of an affair, which cannot possibly afford you the smallest entertainment. People are apt to teize others with those circumstances which affect their own peace; and I never hear Miss Mildmay's name mentioned, but what I am for entering into an account of my passion for her, and a narrative of my various disappointments.’

"O, Sir," replied I, ‘you cannot oblige me more, than by indulging yourself on the subject. I am ex­tremely entertained by relations of this nature; and, if there is no par­ticular secret,’ —"Secret! Sir," returned my brother baronet— ‘O there is no secret—I dare say, by this time, every thing is public enough in England; and therefore I can have no objection to gratify your curiosity, since such a gratification is the highest pleasure I can do myself. You must [Page 186] know, Sir, that Miss Mildmay had scarcely arrived at her cousin Dar­nel's, when the prevailing rethoric of one thousand guineas, and a five hun­dred pound annuity for life, prevailed upon the worthy relation to deliver her into my hands. The price, ex­travagant as it was, I did not matter sixpence; but it seems the uncon­scionable Jezabel was to receive some­thing very handsome from Harold's sister, lady Haversham, for contriv­ing a method of removing those in­conveniencies to which the beautiful delinquent might be exposed, during her absence from her family; such as want of equipage, and other essen­tial articles.—These, lady Haver­sham, as Harold's sister, could not be seen immediately to furnish, as Miss Mildmay's delicacy would be alarmed; and as Mrs. Darnel's cir­cumstances were narrow, she was to [Page 187] receive a secret sufficiency for the purpose, and to be properly consider­ed for her politeness into the bargain. This was the reason why she insisted upon the exorbitant terms I have mentioned.—But enough of terms—let it satisfy, therefore, that she con­trived a feasible excuse to leave Louisa alone one evening—that the servants were all sent out of the way, and that, with the assistance of four or five friends, who were provided in case of accidents, I carried her off to a house which I had at Hampstead, and kept her there for full seven months.’

Now, Melmoth, see my astonishing command of temper—"Seven months!" interrupted I, so calmly— ‘Well, and surely in that time you had opportu­nities enough of carrying your point, either by marriage, or a more expe­ditious [Page 188] method—you understand me’ —"No, by all that's good," replied he, ‘strange as it may appear—I was totally disappointed of suc­cess.—She was in a violent fever the principal part of the time; and, in the intervals of her recovery, nothing could either perswade or terrify her into an acceptance of me.—The few friends who were in the secret, advised me to proceed by other means, and laughed incessantly on account of my romantic purity of affection, as they termed it, for a cast mistress.—Their ridicule too was the more se­vere, because I had been myself one of the very wildest in the whole knot; and had taken such liberties at various times with the sex, as ren­dered my present behaviour to the last degree extraordinary.—There is nothing which we can stand so little as the shaft of ridicule.—I was a [Page 189] thousand times determined to prose­cute their advice—and frequently blushed in secret at the littleness of my conduct, in thinking of Miss Mildmay for a wife—Yet my unac­countable love got the better of my shame, and I was terrified from at­tempting any actual violation, be­cause I knew the greatness of her spirit; and was apprehensive, that, in such a case, she might lay a desperate hand upon her person.—She had re­peatedly threatened as much, and, I am positive, would have been as good as her word.’

"It is wonderful," interrupted I, ‘that some of your friends did not speak of her being with you—that none of your servants, as you were so near a neighbour of the Mildmays, did not, at some time, write to their friends in the country about the [Page 190] young lady—or, that the physi­cians’ —

‘O, the easiest things in the world to manage,’ cried Sir Harry— ‘I had secrets of my friends, as a se­curity for the preservation of mine—my servants were all true to the back bone, and had been tried a thousand times—and as for the physicians—an additional fee made them as silent as the grave at any time.’ —

"Well," interrogated I, ‘and was it possible that she could escape at last out of your hands, without re­warding you for all the trouble which you were at upon her account?’

"It was possible," replied Sir Harry, ‘because she did—and I will tell you by what unfortunate accident.—A parcel of us had been making merry [Page 191] one evening below stairs, and we were all pretty well in for it, before we thought of going to bed—For my part, though I had drank very near four bottles, I had no inclina­tion to undress—I therefore took up a volume of Tristram Shandy, which lay by the bed-side, and continued so long at this, that nature was at last wearied out, and I sunk insen­sibly into so found a sleep, that it was with much difficulty they could wake me, when the house was in flames—for the bed-curtains, by some means, reaching my candle, the whole furniture was instantly in a blaze; and the fire, I suppose, spread through the other apartments with the great­est rapidity:—in the confusion oc­casioned by this unlucky circum­stance, Miss Mildmay contrived to make her escape; and though, the moment her flight was discovered, I [Page 192] posted messengers through all the dif­ferent roads, and even continued an indefatigable search after her for above two months, I never could gain any satisfactory account.—Tired out at length with a search which was pro­ductive of nothing but disappoint­ment and mortification, I gave her over, and quitted England, in hopes that distance and time would mitigate the distresses of my mind, if it could not even restore my tranquillity.—So much, Sir, for Miss Mildmay—and now I have been so communica­tive, I hope you will not think me impertinent, if I ask your name, and beg to know which part of England is favoured with your residence.’

"That," returned I, ‘you shall soon know—My name is Harold.—I have an estate in Somersetshire—but my [Page 193] principal residence, when I am in England, is in Grosvenor-Square.’ —

Have you ever, my dear Charles, particularly remarked Garrick, in the second act, I think it is, of Lear, where Goneril has struck off one half of his followers, and the poor old king tells his melancholly tale to Regan, from whom he expects to meet the most dutiful re­turns of filial gratitude and affection—Have you, I say, remarked the in­tense, the inexpressible astonishment of the venerable monarch, when, instead of receiving the least consolation from the only child of which he now reckons himself possessed, the unnatural harpy aggravates the indignity he has suffered, and desires him even to dismiss one half of those knights, which have yet been spared him by her infamous sister?—If you recollect the face of our modern Roscius in that celebrated scene, you [Page 194] will have some tolerable idea of the amazement which this reply instantly spread over the whole countenance of Hastings—"Harold!"—exclaim­ed he—"Harold!" drawing his chair insensibly from the table, and fixing his eyes on me, with an absolute wildness of surprize— ‘Pray, Sir, are you the Sir Robert Harold—who so lately courted Miss Mildmay?’

"The very same," cried I, running to the door, and bolting it— ‘and you are the Sir Harry Hastings, who have been villain enough to carry off that admirable woman, in a forcible manner, from her family; and to imprison her for several months in a house, where her delicacy was to be treated with a continued round of outrage, and where the imprisonment of her person was to do an irrepara­ble injury to her reputation.—Draw, [Page 195] Sir,—for the same providential dis­pensation which has delivered her out of your hands, now delivers you up for punishment to mine.’

"Mighty pretty truly," returned Sir Harry, clapping his hand also upon his sword, but retreating a little— ‘and so I have been all this while unbo­soming myself to my greatest enemy, upon a full supposition that I was making an agreeable acquaintance, if not a valuable friend?—Truly, a very pretty rencounter—but I deserve it all.—What business had this damn'd tongue of mine to run on so impertinently in the company of an absolute stranger?—And so, Sir Ro­bert Harold, I must give you satis­faction for behaving like an infamous scoundrel to Miss Mildmay?’

[Page 196]"Sir," replied I impatiently, ‘this is no time for words.—The man who could behave basely to Louisa Mildmay, must be the greatest of all villains, and—’

‘I am glad to find you so extreme­ly candid, Sir Robert,’ interrupted he sneeringly; ‘because, if you will only take the trouble of reflecting a little, you will find yourself much a greater villain than your humble ser­vant.—You, Sir,’ continued he, al­tering his voice, and coming up fiercely to me, ‘You are a mighty proper per­son to commence a champion for the cause of virtue.—I carried off Louisa, it is true; and, though I own the ac­tion to be highly criminal, yet is it by any means so poor, so paltry, so despicable, as your conduct in assum­ing the sacred appearance of honour and attachment, to break in upon the [Page 197] unsuspecting confidence of her soul, and to blast her reputation? Her cha­racter, Sir, was as unsullied as the noontide beams of heaven, 'till you insidiously found means to steal upon her affections, and, in an accursed hour, like the basest of all scoundrels, infamously violated every law of hos­pitality—every sentiment of friend­ship—and every protestation of love.—I have violated no law of hospita­lity—have broke no link of friend­ship—have burst no protestation of love.—On the contrary, so far was I from wishing to betray Louisa Mild­may, that I was even willing to take her, stained and polluted as she was by your baseness, and did not hesitate an instant to participate in her shame.—And shall you, the original author of all her misfortunes, shall you take upon you to call others to an account?—Shall you, a villain of such deeper [Page 198] dye, stand up as an advocate for in­jured innocence; and talk of chastiz­ing offenders, who are, comparative­ly, spotless to yourself?—Audacious scoundrel! let me rather, as infinitely the least culpable of the two, here take vengeance upon you, for all the calamities which have befallen a wo­man, whom I doat upon to distrac­tion.—From the moment I first heard of your success with her, your very name planted a thousand scorpions in my bosom; and I would have sacri­ficed you to my rage, had not an indi­cation of my resentment been likely to disappoint my designs upon Louisa.—I therefore studiously avoided see­ing you, well knowing the vehemence of my own temper.—But the time is now come—and it is not a little of your blood, which can gratify the greediness of my revenge.’

[Page 199]Melmoth, cowardice and guilt are inseparable companions.—By the God of Heaven, this harangue of Sir Harry's almost petrified me.—I felt myself a paltry despicable villain; and I actually believe, had not his sword been already pointed at my bosom, the justice of his reply would have sham'd my resent­ment into silence, and awed me into all conscientious acknowledgments of the keenest self-reproach—but my manhood was roused at the sight of his naked weapon; and to it we went, with as de­termined a malignity, as ever rankled in the breasts of men.—Sir Harry had great command of his sword, and was prodigiously strong in the arm—for some time he thought to conquer me by a mere exertion of force;—but find­ing this method ineffectual, he threw out one of those exquisite feints, which none but a master indeed should ever think of giving into.—I don't believe [Page 200] he thought me so good a swordsman as I really am—however, before he could possibly recover himself, I made so rapid a lunge, that my sword was half way through his right breast; and the vio­lence of the thrust, together with the acuteness of the pain, brought him in­stantly to the floor.—The noise which our combat occasioned, by this time bringing up the people of the house, I thought it highly necessary to think of making my escape, especially as they all cried out, he's a dead man; and he himself advised me to set immediately off.—I did so—and, leaving Edwards to follow with my baggage, I quitted Paris in less than an hour, and shall embark in a few minutes for Dover.

Such is the history of this quarrel—and now, Charles hear me attentively:—The moment you receive this, go to lady Haversham, and tell her, that if [Page 201] Louisa and her friends are not entirely reconciled, and ready to receive me at my going over. I shall take an everlasting leave of England, and perhaps, banish myself for life, from any degree of con­verse with human society.—Tell her that what my angel has suffered, and suffered chiefly through my means, has rendered her so inconceivably dear to my fond heart, that a new disappointment will probably drive me to some instant act of desperation.—In short, Charles, tell lady Haversham every thing which is most likely to alarm her tenderness, or work upon her generosity.—But why do I affront the excellent woman with a doubt of this unnecessary nature?—Why do I suppose—But, Charles, I will neither talk of doubts nor supposes—The first are the greatest injury to the benignity of her heart; and the latter, I hope, is a violence to the justice of my [Page 202] own. Adieu, therefore, my dear Mel­moth, and be assured, that, let my fate be whatsoever it may, I must be, as long as I live,

LETTER XXI. Lady HAVERSHAM to the Countess of BLANDFORD.

MY cares are now over—Bob is at last married to Miss Mildmay—and has turned out the very thing I al­ways thought he would—a man of real probity, and sound understanding.—Your ladyship already knows what a variety of misfortunes attended my sweet sister, from the time of her expulsion from her father's, till her departure from the Magdalen.—So that all which is necessary for me to relate, is the recep­tion which her family gave her, and the reception which she gave my brother.

I have already told you, that the mo­ment her poor parents saw her letter to [Page 204] Miss Beauclerk, they wrote up to me, desiring me to take her instantly away from the strange asylum which she had chosen in her delirium, and promising to be in town within a week, when every thing should be settled to my satisfac­tion; for I had frequently told them, how passionately Bob continued to love the unfortunate young lady, under all the disadvantages of what we considered a scandalous elopement.—They at the same time sent me up Louisa's little history, where I saw plainly enough, that notwithstanding the unaccountable part which my brother had acted, the dear deceived girl could not, by any means, erase him from her heart.—A copy of this letter I therefore got that worthy man, Mr. Melmoth, to take, for Bob's immediate use, and flew myself to the Magdalen, to which, as I have been, upon some occasions, a benefactress, I have always access, and enquired for [Page 205] Louisa by her assumed appellation of Windham.—The good Mrs. Dobson, and her sister, who have acquired so just a consideration with Louisa, were with her when I went in—the two honest women, it seems, are intimately ac­quainted with the matron, and that ac­quaintance admitted them, whenever they pleased, to Miss Windham.—They were now sitting in the matron's room, when my appearance threw the little group into the greatest consternation.—Louisa, the moment she saw me, started from her seat with a light'ning-like rapidity, and exclaiming, ‘Lady Haversham! lady Haversham!’ fainted instantly in my arms.—Her two friends seemed prodigiously struck—but nevertheless ex­erted themselves so successfully in reco­vering her, that she was quickly in a capacity of conversing; which, when they found, they proposed to withdraw, though Mrs. Dobson had a visible re­luctance [Page 206] in her manner, that made me consider her with extraordinary atten­tion.—Miss Mildmay, however, would not suffer them to stir; but, taking each by the hand, presented them with such a grace to me, that I could not help kissing her heartily for the condescend­ing dignity of the recollection.— ‘My dear lady Haversham,’ says she, ‘you have, I suppose, seen my letter to Miss Beauclerk.’ —I answered in the affirmative.—"Why then," continued she, ‘give me leave to present two of the worthiest creatures in the universe to your ladyship.—This, Madam, is the excellent Mrs. Dobson—and this the beneficent Mrs. Carter, whom I have mentioned in that paper.’

I rose, and saluted each of them; thanking them in the warmest terms, for their generous attention to Miss Mild­may; and, begging to know in what [Page 207] manner I could be serviceable to them on her account.—"O, Madam," cried Mrs. Dobson, falling on her knees, and kissing my hand with great eagerness, ‘you have been long entitled to our ut­most services—to the everlasting prayers of me and my whole family.—Your ladyship's munificent hand, and your noble brother's, have been the blessed instruments of Providence, to snatch both me and mine from destruction.—Your ladyship may re­member the unhappy farmer Jenkins, of Salisbury, who was thrown into gaol through the inhumanity of a brutal landlord, for resenting an inde­cent liberty taken with his daughter: I, Madam, was wife to that Jenkins, and mother to that daughter.—Your gracious brother redeemed my hus­band from prison, and gave a mar­riage portion with my child.—Your ladyship scarcely heard of Sir Robert's [Page 208] unexampled generosity, before you sent us down such a sum, as enabled us to pay off all our debts, and set us, once more, above the frowns of the world.—We were utterly unknown both to your brother and you; and had no recommendation to your pity, but the merit of our distress.—May the great God of heaven and earth, shower down eternal blessings upon both your heads; and may you both feel that happiness a hundred times doubled, with which you filled the hearts of both me and mine!’

Grateful, generously-minded creature!—My dear lady Blandford, you can't think how the tears rolled down my cheeks at this pathetic address.—I re­membered the name perfectly well; and it was the merit of my brother's beha­viour on that occasion, which originally rivetted him to the bosom of Louisa.— [Page 209] You recollect the affair yourself, I dare say; for I believe I shewed you, as a curiosity, what a well-written letter of thanks I received from poor Mrs. Jen­kins, immediately after I had ordered the remittance, which dwelt so strongly upon the good woman's memory. I raised her up, you may be sure, as soon as I possibly could, and told her, that the young lady whom she had be­friended so much, would, I hope, in a short time, honour my brother with her hand, as the match was what lay close­ly to the heart of both our families.—She heard me with a look that indicated a wildness of satisfaction; and, bursting into a loud flood of tears, ran about the room, crying, "Thank God!—thank God!—I have lived to be of some little use to my benefactors!"

You will undoubtedly be surprized, my dear lady Blandford, at finding the [Page 210] wife of a poor husbandman expressing herself with such an air of elegance, as Mrs. Dobson.—The heart of the mean­est peasant may be as sentimentally ele­gant as a prince's—but it is education alone, which forms the delivery of our sentiments, and gives the customary cha­racteristic of order and distinction.—For my own part, I was so much surprized at her manner, that I could not help telling her how greatly it struck me—To which she modestly replied, ‘That I was all goodness—but that her fa­ther was a curate in Wiltshire, who had several children, and not more than forty pounds a year—At the same time, therefore,’ continued she, ‘that he took every necessary care about the improvement of our minds, he took care to bring us up in a manner that suited with the narrow­ness of our fortunes—so that we be­came somewhat remarkable through [Page 211] the neighbourhood for our industry, and our education.—We all married men of humble situations; and hence arises the trifling disparity which your ladyship is pleased to observe between our conversation and our circum­stances.’ —But to go on—

Having shewn Louisa the letter I re­ceived from her father, she consented to go away with me instantly; but begged that Mrs. Dobson and Mrs. Carter would favour her with their company, whenever she took the liberty to request it.—The worthy women assured her of their immediate concurrence, and we parted with many tears on both sides, after I had left a fifty pound bill for the use of the charity.

Louisa was at my house about four days, when her father and her mother came to town.—The dear girl, though [Page 212] she impatiently longed to see them, was, however, extremely terrified at the thoughts of their approach. "How, my dear lady Haversham," would she ex­claim, ‘shall I be ever able to look them in the face?—There is one guilt which I acknowledge; and they have nothing but my own word to purge away the imputation of a se­cond.—Mrs. Darnell's assertion may be taken as soon as mine.—Good God! how shall I look them in the face?’

They came at last—but with hearts prepossessed entirely as she could wish. They had seen some of Hastings's fa­vourite servants, before their departure from the country; and, partly by me­naces, and partly by bribes, they came at the truth, which corresponded exact­ly with the relation of Louisa.—Sensible, therefore, only to her late sufferings, [Page 213] the father and the brother entirely for­got their resentment, on account of her original error; and the doating mother, who considered matters in a more tender light than either, was even ready to con­demn herself, for agreeing to the ex­pulsion of so deserving a daughter, when she came to weigh all the misfortunes which that expulsion had fatally produc­ed.—In this frame of mind the three came to town, attended by Mrs. and Miss Beau­clerck, when Louisa was informed they were all below stairs.—Sweet girl, how she trembled!—how she wept!—By the force of hartshorn and argument, I, however, recovered her, and she came down, leaning on my arm, into the back parlour, where they were assembled.—She had scarcely entered the room, when the poor mother, frantic almost with impatience and joy, sprung from her seat, and, fastening round her neck, strained her in her arms, with a violence [Page 214] that almost bordered upon distraction.—Louisa's feelings were no less exqui­site—She endeavoured to return the embrace with an equal degree of fer­vour, and both sunk lifeless upon the floor, before either could give utterance to a single word.—The colonel ran to his sister; while the venerable old gen­tleman seemed entirely employed about the recovery of his excellent lady;—as to Mrs. Beauclerck, her daughter, and my­self, we could scarcely afford them any as­sistance for our tears.

When the mother and the daughter became somewhat composed, the latter threw herself at her father's feet, and begged at once his pardon and his bless­ing.—The old gentleman, whose heart was long since melted, looked at her for some time, with an eagerness of si­lent rapture, as if he was perfectly will­ing, yet totally unable, to comply with [Page 215] her request: at last, no longer master of himself, he fell instinctively upon his knees, as she knelt, and, catching her in his arms, exclaimed, ‘O my child, my child!’ and sobbed out with such a violence, that one would imagine his heart was absolutely bursting.—We, therefore, tore him up in a manner;—but Louisa was rivetted on her knees—there was no prevailing upon her to rise.—After her father was forced into a chair, she turned to her brother, who now hung weeping over her; and, while a large drop seem fastened upon each of her cheeks, she cried out— ‘O, Harry, what has my infamy cost you!—Can you—but it is impossible—you never can forgive the wretch who has—but are you actually recovered?—O what a wretch am I, to involve every body, who loves me, in destruction!’ —The colonel replied to this, in a man­ner equally polite and tender; and Mrs. [Page 216] and Miss Beauclerk now coming to claim some little share of her attention, Lou­isa began to grow more temperate, and received them both with the warmest tokens of a most cordial affection.—In a little time we were all restored to our­selves; and the whole company were kind enough to become my guests, dur­ing their continuation in town; nay, in less than two hours, Miss Mildmay, at the desire of her parents, consented to overlook my brother's behaviour; and a chariot was dispatched for Mrs. Dob­son and Mrs. Carter, whom Mrs. Mild­may impatiently wanted to see, and who good-naturedly came to us in less than two hours more.—But now, my dear lady Blandford, prepare for something extraordinary—

Mr. Melmoth, whom we have long thought a mighty worthy man, and who, for many years past, has been indulg­ing [Page 217] a most melancholly turn of disposi­tion, on account of a wife and an in­fant, who died while he was quite a young man, and abroad, is now the hap­piest of human beings:—he has found that wife, and that child, in the person of Mrs. Beauclerck, and her amiable daughter.—Two days after Mr. Mild­may came to town, Mr. Melmoth re­ceived a letter from my brother, with orders to communicate it instantly to me; and as Mr. Melmoth has a friend­ship of an uncommon nature for Bob, he never hesitates a moment to execute his commands—(but, by the bye, lady Blandford, you will see what a narrow escape Bob has had in another duel.—God grant it may be the last—for if any accident should happen to him, I should absolutely run distracted.)—Well, as I was saying, Mr. Melmoth came to my house after dinner, and, requesting to speak with me in private, produced my [Page 218] brother's letter; observing that Provi­dente seemed particularly inclined to ex­culpate Miss Mildmay; and no less de­sirous of punishing those, in an exem­plary manner, who had been intentionally instrumental (that was his qualifying word for Bob's sake) in that young la­dy's distress.—I took the letter with a trembling hand; and, though I rejoiced at this undeniable confirmation of Lou­isa's rectitude, still it was with the great­est difficulty I could get through the ac­count of the duel, which you will find inclosed in this pacquet.—I was obliged to use my har [...]shorn twenty times;—and I don't know that I could have read it at all, had not Mr. Melmoth previously assured me, that my brother was in health.

When I had at last got through the contents, I insisted upon Mr. Melmoth's going in with me to the company, as [Page 219] he was intimately known by character to every body, though with some he might be unacquainted by person.—He accord­ingly complied; but judge, my dear, the universal astonishment, when, at the very instant of his entrance, Mrs Beau­clerck screamed out, "Mr. Villars!"—and fell back into her chair.—Alarmed at the name, the manner, and the voice, he flew to her, and exclaiming, ‘O my Nancy, my Nancy,’ raised her up in his arms; while her beautiful daughter ran wild to her assistance, not knowing what to think of this extravagant sur­prize.—Not to keep you any longer in suspence, my dear lady Blandford, the company soon discovered, that Mrs. Beauclerk was the long lost wife of Mr. Melmoth; and that some very extraor­dinary circumstance had divided them, without any fault on either side, for a painful series of years.—What, however, appeared very strange, was, [Page 220] that each imagined the other to be dead; and that the information concerning the death of each, was communicated to the other, by no less indubitable a chan­nel of intelligence, than Mr. Melmoth's own father.—Mr. Melmoth's father, it seems, was a great East-India merchant, and intended to give his son a large for­tune—but the young gentleman fall­ing in love, and marrying contrary to his father's consent, the old man would not be reconciled to him upon any terms, but his taking a voyage to the Indies, and continuing abroad for an interval of three years.—Mr. Melmoth, having no resource for the maintenance of his wife, but his father's bounty, thought it better to accept of these cruel conditions, than to expose the woman of his soul to penury and distress: he complied, therefore, though with a bleed­ing heart, and accordingly set out in about thirteen months after their mar­riage, [Page 221] just as she had been delivered of a daughter.—He had scarce reached the place of his destination in the Indies, when his father wrote over a melan­cholly letter, containing an account of his wife's death, and his child's; and advising him to think of enlarging the term of his residence in that quarter of the globe. This was an advice which, the young gentleman readily pursued. After the loss of all that was most dear to his wishes, England became hateful to his thoughts, and he did not return, till two years after the death of his fa­ther; when he had the mortification to find, that the old gentleman had left all his wealth to some remoter branches of his family.—Young Mr. Villars, for so I shall now call him, though disappoint­ed in his expectations of succeeding to his father's fortune, was, however, in very affluent circumstances himself. Dur­ing his residence abroad, he had acquir­ed [Page 222] immense riches, and had been left by a friend no less than eighty thousand pounds to take the name of Melmoth. His property, when he came home, he chiefly laid out in the purchase of lands; and Bob has told me repeatedly, the va­lue of his estates is a clear seven thou­sand a year.—Yet, though he came home a very young man, and a very rich one, he still avoided mixing much with society.—The company of women he particularly shunned; and employed himself chiefly in acts of beneficence, and literary researches.—I don't recol­lect by what accident my brother Bob and he became originally acquainted—but, notwithstanding the disparity of years, and the diametrically opposite cast of complexions, he entertained a very high esteem for Bob; and would some­times, on his account, visit at my house, and be sociable.—I always respected him—I saw what an excellent heart he [Page 223] possessed; and he gained my esteem en­tirely, by the almost parental solicitude which he shewed for the welfare of my giddy-headed brother—and see, my dear, how Providence has rewarded him.—In the very moment that he was la­bouring for the happiness of other peo­ple, we see his own tranquillity restor­ed; and find, that the benignity which induced him to mitigate the distresses of his friends, has been the principal means of removing all those distresses under which he struggled himself.—Who, lady Blandford, ought not to be virtuous, even from interest?—since, if the con­sciousness of having performed a good action, is not a sufficient reward, we are so generally certain of finding it highly to our advantage in the end?—But now, to say something of Mrs. Vil­lars—This lady, on the supposed death of her husband, was reduced to some difficulties for support—and, had not a [Page 224] distant relation unexpectedly left her a considerable sum of money, she, per­haps, had found it necessary to work for bread. Old Mr. Villars would not advance her a shilling;—and few are fond of cultivating a friendship with calamity.—Soured, therefore, at the world, and ab­solutely wretched for the loss of her husband, the moment she found herself in circumstances, she retired to a seques­tered habitation in the country, and has lived there ever since in a very private manner, visiting very few people, and continuing an intimacy scarcely at any house but Mr. Mildmay's.

Thus far, lady Blandford, Mr. and Mrs. Villars's story seemed to account for their separation; but still there want­ed some probable causes for old Mr. Villars's conduct, as well as for his daughter-in-law's assuming the name of Beauclerk. Most of us, therefore, ho­nestly [Page 225] expressed our surprize, that the consideration of Mr. Melmoth's marry­ing a young lady without a fortune, could induce his father to practise so barbarous a deceit upon an only son; and Mr. Melmoth himself seemed astonished, that his lady should, without any reasonable foundation, sacrifice his name, while she continued to dedicate herself so religi­ously to his memory.—Mrs. Melmoth blushed, and only said, she had her reasons.—

"That she had," cried out Mrs. Dobson, (who had been in the house some time, and now eagerly thrust her­self forward.) I was amazed at the good woman; and, indeed, so was all the company:—but as she appeared pregnant with something of importance, Mr. Melmoth entreated she would go on.—

[Page 226]"I will, Sir," answered she; ‘but, first of all, give me leave to ask you a question or two.—Pray, do you re­collect one William Dobson, who for­merly was a favourite servant of your father's?’ —

"Yes; very well," returned Mr. Mel­moth.—

‘And pray, don't you recollect, that, before your marriage with Miss Nancy Markham, the lady who now stands here, was publicly known, the same William Dobson one day told you, in confidence, that your father was in love with Miss Markham, and intended to offer very advantageous settlements, in hopes that the great­ness of the proposal, might obviate the difference of his age, and induce her to accept of him as a husband? Pray, Sir, do you remember this?’

[Page 227]"Yes, Madam," replied Mr. Mel­moth, "I remember it perfectly well."

‘Why then, Sir, the whole affair is nothing more than this—Your father, stung almost to madness, at finding himself cut off from the first wish of his heart, resolved upon the barbarous method of separating you, and mak­ing each believe that the other was dead. An assurance of this nature coming from a father, could admit of no doubt; and you might either of you have entered into a second mar­riage, even before accident had unde­ceived you. In either case, the dis­covery of the deceit would have only increased your distress; and in the former, so long as it remained undis­covered, so long he was certain of making you miserable.—This was not, however, the whole of his de­sign.—If he could make your lady [Page 228] entertain a belief of your demise, he thought it still possible for himself, at some opportunity, to gratify the hor­rid purposes of his imagination.—Though she was his daughter, he still continued to love her; and once, I believe, actually insinuated a pro­position that must be shocking to humanity.—This was at a time when her necessities were extreme, and when he hoped the severity of her si­tuation would lessen the horror of his overture.—But let me hurry from this dreadful part of my narrative—When he found himself treated with the ab­horrence which he merited—when your lady even threatened to expose him to the world, and talked of ap­plying instantly to a magistrate, if he ever more came within her doors, he grew outrageous—he hired ruffians to insult her; and omitted no oppor­tunity of slandering her reputation. [Page 229] When, therefore, she retired from London, she found it I suppose ne­cessary to change her name, for fear of his infamous machinations.—This was what he told my husband he was fearful of; and it is very fortunate the lady took that precaution; for I have been well assured, he made every possible enquiry, to discover the place of her retreat.’ —

"Gracious God!" exclaimed Mr. Melmoth, ‘and can there be such fa­thers?—But pray, Madam, tell me by what means you have gained this information.’ —

‘From the repository of all his se­crets, William Dobson, Sir; whom, after the death of a former husband, once the object of lady Haversham's benevolence, I married.—Mr. Dob­son often told me the story, and se­verely [Page 230] reproached himself at times, for continuing in the old gentleman's service.—But it seems he was a liberal master, and therefore William, I sup­pose, endeavoured to check the pun­gency of his reflections.—Mr. Dob­son, Sir, died about six months ago; and, on his death-bed, conjured me, if ever I found a proper opportunity, to make this discovery.—I would not disturb the ashes of the dead unne­cessarily; but the surprize which you expressed at your lady's change of name, affecting me in a very parti­cular manner, I could conceal the cir­cumstance no longer.—Perhaps I have been presumptuous.—I beg par­don of the honourable company; and hope they will excuse my imperti­nence, from a just consideration of my end.’ —

[Page 231]Lady Blandford, did you ever hear so dreadful a story?—The barbarous—but let us not think of the monster—the bare idea of him curdles my very blood, and I shake with horror at the recollection of having written so much on so detestable a subject.—

When Mrs. Dobson had done her story, every body endeavoured to shift the conversation; and none of us hav­ing yet felicitated Mr. Melmoth on his happy discovery of such a wife, and such a daughter, we took this opportu­nity of doing it very sincerely.—The worthy man was all extasy; while the two ladies sat between Mrs. Mildmay and Louisa, enjoying a thousand exqui­site feelings at so fortunate an event; and every now and then testifying their satisfaction with an expressive flood of tears.—Mr. Melmoth, my dear lady Blandford, will be now quite another [Page 232] creature.—His temper has already un­dergone a total alteration; and you can­not think how pleased I am at the im­patience which he manifests, if he is but a moment absent from his new­found happiness. He loves his wife with an excess of tenderness, and in­deed well he may—for a more excellent, or a more lovely woman, of her age, I believe, is not to be found in Eng­land.—His daughter too is as fine a young lady in person, as ever I saw, and has a mind that even adds a lustre to her external accomplishments.—Well, and what do you think has been already done about her?—why, her father offered fifty thousand pounds with her to colonel Mildmay; and old Mr. Mild­may is so heartily for the match, that he proposes to make a double wedding of it, the moment my brother arrives in town.—Four and twenty hours ago, Mr. Mildmay would not have consent­ed [Page 233] so readily to his son's marriage with Miss Beauclerk.—But Miss Melmoth's fortune has an irresistible charm; and fifty thousand pounds will be no trifling affair to support the coronet which he expects in his family.—Yet I don't know but this reflection would be a lit­tle cruel to the good old man, if I was writing to any body but lady Blandford.

Mr. Mildmay, his lady, and the co­lonel, (for Mr. Melmoth deprived me of two visitors) were now in town about five days, when Bob arrived at my door; The father and son were looking through the parlour window, when he stopped, and both ran out good-na­turedly to meet him, and insisted he would make no apologies for what was past.—Faults, they observed, had been on both sides; and since he had cha­stized that villain Hastings, they could forgive him every thing.—Bob, lady [Page 234] Blandford, was in a most elegant un­dress, and really looked charmingly.—Louisa, who was prepared to expect him every hour, was not much alarmed when he was introduced. She and her mamma were sitting in the dining room, when he came up between Mr. Mild­may and the colonel.—I led the van; and Alexander himself, in the midst of all his victories, I am pretty certain, never experienced one half of my satis­faction.—You know how I love the recreant, and how I esteem the Mild­mays.—This happy reconciliation, there­fore, almost overcame me—so that in­stead of saying any thing to Louisa on my entrance, I retired to a sopha in one corner of the room, and indulged myself in a delicious flood of tears.—Bob, however, was all himself: with an air of the deepest respect, yet of the greatest manliness, he went up to the two ladies, and, falling on his knee, [Page 235] held a hand of each alternately to his lips, without once breaking out into any aukward excuses; which, as mat­ters then stood, must have called back disagreeable images, and been little else, in fact, than so many insinuated af­fronts.—Louisa was all sweetness and confusion—the mother, nothing but sensibility and joy—both, at length, however, insisted upon his rising; and he got up with such a grace—to be sure, lady Blandford, there is not a finer young fellow in the kingdom—and, as he is now in so fair a way of being good, you must allow me to speak of him with my utmost partiality. In the even­ing Mr. Melmoth came with his lady and daughter.—How did my generous Bob—(I will call him my Bob now) ex­ult in the happiness of his friend! and how did that equally generous friend re­joice at the happiness of my brother!—In short, all our hearts overflowed with [Page 236] delight; and, to render this delight the more permanent, we fairly married the two couple at St. George's, Hano­ver-Square, the very next morning.

I have been so busy since the cele­bration of these weddings, that the writ­ing of this letter has taken me up a whole week; and yet, long as it is now, and, fatigued as I am with drawing it up, I cannot conclude, without inform­ing you of some farther particulars.—Hastings's wound, blessed be God, is not mortal.—A friend from Paris sends word, that it had a dangerous appear­ance at first; but that, by the skill of a very able surgeon, the patient will be soon in a fair way of recovering.—Cri­minal as that man may be, still it is a terrible thing to have the blood of a fellow-creature upon our hands.—But the vile Mrs. Darnel—I know not whe­ther it is improper sometimes to be un­concerned [Page 237] at the misfortunes of the un­commonly wicked—That wretch, find­ing her infamous hypocrisy thus palpa­bly detected, and, fearing both the re­proach of the whole world, and the ut­most severity of the law on account of her behaviour to Louisa, sold off her house and furniture, and, with the mo­ney it produced, prepared to embark for France—but in going down the river for that purpose, the boat accidentally overset, and the miserable creature, to­gether with the woman who had been the principal instrument in the barba­rous behaviour to my sister, was drown­ed.—As for lady Harold's own maid, Sally, one of my brother's men assures him, she died in an hospital, of a di­stemper that naturally resulted from her crimes.—Thus you see, in the short story of our family, my dear lady Bland­ford, that vice is sure to be punished at [Page 238] last, however prosperous it may appear in the setting out: whereas virtue, let it be never so depressed in the begin­ning, is always certain of triumphing in the end.—In the course of our little no­vel, all the worthy characters of di­stinction have been made happy, and Louisa will take care that none of the inferior ones shall go unrewarded. Mrs. Dobson is to be her housekeeper, with an annuity of a hundred pounds for life; and the good woman's garden is to be settled on her children in the country.—Mrs. Carter's Sally is to at­tend my sister in quality of woman; and my Bob has taken a large house in St. James's Market for the mother; which, when properly stocked and fitted up, he intends her as a present, and has no doubt but she will be soon able to give her daughter such a fortune, as will get her a very excellent husband. [Page 239] —God bless you, my dear lady Bland­ford—take care of your health, and set me down as