Her manner is changed! Wholly! She is become cold, reserved; has marked me out for neglect; smiles on me no more; not a sigh escapes her. And why? What have I done? I am unconscious. Have I been too presuming?

Perhaps so. But why did her looks never till now speak her meaning as intelligibly as they do at present? I could not then have mistaken them. Why, till now, has she seemed to regard me with that sweet amenity which was so flattering to hope?

Perhaps, in the distraction of my thoughts, I am unjust to her. And shall I, pretending as I do to love so pure, shall I become her accuser? What if she meant no more than that commerce of grateful kindness, which knits together human society, and renders it delightful?

Yet this sudden change! So evidently intentional! The smiles too which she bestows on the brother of Louisa, and the haughty airs of triumph which he a.s.sumes, what can these be? Confident in himself, ardent in his desires, unchecked by those fears which are the offspring of true delicacy, his pa.s.sions violent, and his pride almost insufferable, he thinks he loves. But he is ignorant of the alarms, the tremors, the 'fitful fevers' of love.

I cannot endure my present torture. I must seek a desperate end to it, by explanation. Why do I delay? Coward that I am! What worse can happen than despair? And is not despair itself preferable to that worst of fiends, suspense? What do I mean by despair? Would I, being rejected, desert my duty, sink into self, and poorly linger in wretchedness; or basely put an end to existence? Violently end that which ought to be devoted to the good of others?--How did so infernal a thought enter my mind?--Can I be so very lost a thing?--No!--Despair is something confused, something horrid: I know not what. It may intrude upon me, at black and dismal intervals; but it shall not overwhelm me. I will shake it off. I will meet my destiny.

The clouds are gathering; the storm approaches; I hear the distant thunder rolling; this way it drives; it points at me; it must suddenly burst! Be it so. Grant me but the spirit of a man, and I yet shall brave its fury. If I am a poor braggart, a half believer in virtue, or virtuous only in words, the feeble victim then must justly perish.

I cannot endure my torments! Cannot, because there is a way to end them. It shall be done.

I blush to read, blush to recollect the rhapsodies of my own perturbed mind! Madman! 'Tis continually thus. Day after day I proceed, reasoning, reproving, doubting, wishing, believing and despairing, alternately.

Once again, where is this strange impossibility?--In what does it consist?--Are we not both human beings?--What law of Nature has placed her beyond my hopes?--What is rank? Does it imply superiority of mind?

Or is there any other superiority?--Am I not a man?--And who is more?

Have the t.i.tled earned their dignities by any proofs of exalted virtue?

Were not these dignities things of accident, in which the owners had no share, and of which they are generally unworthy? And shall hope be thus cowed and killed, without my daring to exert the first and most unalienable of the rights of man, freedom of thought? Shall I not examine what these high distinctions truly are, of which the bearers are so vain?

This Clifton--! Thou knowest not how he treats me. And can she approve, can she second his injustice?--Surely not!--Yet does she not dedicate her smiles to him, her conversation, her time? Does she not shun me, discountenance me, and reprove me, by her silence and her averted eyes?

Once again it must and shall have an end!--I have repeated this too often; but my next shall shew thee I am at length determined.

F. HENLEY

LETTER XL

_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_

_Chateau de Villebrun_

An affair has just happened in this country which is the universal topic of conversation. The daughter of a n.o.ble and wealthy family has fallen in love with a man of uncommon learning, science, and genius, but a musician. In consequence of his great skill and reputation, he was employed to teach her music; and she it appears was too sensible, at least for the decorum of our present manners, of his worth.

The ability to discover his merit implies merit in herself, and the musician and lady were equally enamoured of each other. A plan for elopement consequently was laid, and put in execution; but not effectually, for, before the lovers had pa.s.sed the confines of the kingdom, they were pursued and overtaken.

The musician knew his own personal danger, and by a stratagem fortunately escaped from his bonds, and attained a place of safety. The lady was brought back; and, from the severity of the French laws and the supposed atrocity of the crime, it is generally affirmed that the musician, notwithstanding his talents and fame, had he been secured, would have been executed.

I have mentioned this adventure, my dear Louisa, not so much for its own sake as for what relates to myself. It was natural that I should feel compa.s.sion for mistakes, if mistakes they be, which have so great an affinity to virtue; and that I should plead for the lovers, and against the barbarity of laws so unjust and inhuman. For it is certain that, had not the musician been put to death, his least punishment would have been perpetual imprisonment.

In a former letter I mentioned the increasing alarms of Sir Arthur; and this was a fit opportunity for him to shew how very serious and great those alarms are. He opposed me, while I argued in behalf of the lovers, with what might in him be called violence; affirmed it was a crime for which no merit or genius could compensate; highly applauded those wholesome laws that prevented such crimes, and preserved the honour of n.o.ble families from attaint; lamented the want of similar laws in England; and spoke of the conduct of the young lady with a degree of bitterness which from him was unusual. In fine, the spirit of his whole discourse was evidently to warn me, and explicitly to declare what his opinions on this subject are.

Had I before wanted conviction, he fully convinced me, on this occasion, of the impossibility of any union between me and Frank Henley; at least without sacrificing the felicity of my father and my family, and from being generally and sincerely beloved by them, rendering myself the object of eternal reproach, and almost of hatred.

Previous to this conversation, I was uneasy at the state of my own mind, and particularly at what I suppose to be the state of Mr.

Henley's; and this uneasiness is at present very much increased.

Once again, Louisa, it must immediately have an end. I can support it no longer. I must be firm. My half-staggering resolution is now fixed. I cannot, must not doubt. My father and family must not be sacrificed to speculative probabilities. Frank is the most deserving of mankind; and that it should be a duty to reject the most deserving of mankind, as the friend of my life, my better self, my husband, is strange; but I am nevertheless convinced that a duty it is. Yes; the conflicts of doubt are over. I must and will persevere.

Poor Frank! To be guilty of injustice to a nature so n.o.ble, to wring a heart so generous, and to neglect desert so unequalled, is indeed a killing thought! But the stern the unrelenting dictates of necessity must be obeyed. The neglect the injustice and the cruelty are the world's, not mine: my heart disavows them, revolts at them, detests them!

Heaven bless my Louisa, and give her superior prudence to guard and preserve her from these too strong susceptibilities! May the angel of fort.i.tude never forsake her, as she seems half inclined to do her poor.

A. W. ST. IVES

END OF VOLUME II

VOLUME III

LETTER XLI

_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_

_Chateau de Villebrun_

At last, my dear Louisa, the charm is broken: the spell of silence is dissolved. Incapable any longer of restraint, pa.s.sion has burst its bounds, and strong though the contest was, victory has declared for reason.

My change of behaviour has produced this effect. Not that I applaud myself: on the contrary, I am far from pleased with my own want of fort.i.tude. I have even a.s.sumed an austerity which I did not feel.

I do not mean to say that all appearances, relative to myself, were false. No. I was uneasy; desirous to speak, desirous that he should speak, and could accomplish neither. I accused myself of having given hopes that were seductive, and wished to retract. In short, I have not been altogether so consistent as I ought to be; as my letters to you, my friend, will witness.

Various little incidents preceded and indeed helped to produce this swell and overflow of the heart, and the eclairciss.e.m.e.nt that followed.

In the morning at breakfast, Frank took the cakes I usually eat to hand to me; and Clifton, whose watchful spirit is ever alert, caught up a plate of bread and b.u.t.ter, to offer me at the same instant. His looks shewed he expected the preference. I was sorry for it, and paused for a moment. At last the principle of not encouraging Frank prevailed, and I took some bread and b.u.t.ter from Clifton. It was a repet.i.tion of slights, which Frank had lately met with, and he felt it; yet he bowed with a tolerable grace, and put down his plate.

He soon after quitted the room, but returned unperceived by me. The young marchioness had breakfasted, and retired to her toilet; where some of the gentlemen were attending her. She had left a snuff-box of considerable value with me, which I had forgotten to return; and, with that kind of sportive cheerfulness which I rather encourage than repress, I called--'Here! Where are all my esquires? I want a messenger.'

Clifton heard me, and Frank was unexpectedly at my elbow. Had I known it, I should not have spoken so thoughtlessly. Frank came forward and bowed. Clifton called--'Here am I, ready, fair lady, to execute your behests.'

I was a second time embarra.s.sed. After a short hesitation, I said--'No--I have changed my mind.'

Frank retired; but Clifton advanced, with his usual gaiety, answering,--'Nay, nay! I have not earned half a crown yet this morning, and I must not be cheated of my fare.' I would still have refused, but I perceived Clifton began to look serious, and I said to him--'Well, well, good man, here then, take this snuff-box to the marchioness, she may want it: but do not blunder, and break it; for if you do I shall dismiss you my service. Recollect the picture in the lid, set with diamonds!'

It was fated to be a day of mortification to Frank. His complaisance had induced him to comply with the request of the marchioness, that he would read one of the mad scenes in Lear, though he knew she had not the least acquaintance with the English language. But she wanted amus.e.m.e.nt, and was pleased to mark the progress of the pa.s.sions; which I never saw so distinctly and highly expressed as in his countenance, when he reads Shakespeare.

I happened to come into her apartment, for the French are delightfully easy of access, and the reading was instantly interrupted. I was the very person she wanted to see. How should we spend the evening? The country was horribly dull! There had been no new visitors these two days! Should we have a dance? I gave my a.s.sent, and away she ran to tell every body.

I followed; Frank came after me, and with some reluctance, foreboding a repulse, asked whether he should have the pleasure to dance with me.

His manner and the foregone circ.u.mstances made me guess his question before he spoke. My answer was--'I have just made a promise to myself that I will dance with Mr. Clifton.' It was true: the thought had pa.s.sed through my mind.

Mr. Clifton, madam!