"She was in bed, pale, emaciated; the lovely babe you saw with me in her arms.

"Though prepared for my visit, she was unable to bear the shock of seeing me; I ran to her, she raised herself in the bed, and, throwing her feeble arms round my neck, could only say, 'My f.a.n.n.y! is this possible!' and fainted away.

"Our cares having recovered her, she endeavored to compose herself; her eyes were fixed tenderly on me, she pressed my hand between hers, the tears stole silently down her cheeks; she looked at her child, then at me; she would have spoke, but the feelings of her heart were too strong for expression.

"I begged her to be calm, and promised to spend the day with her; I did not yet dare, lest the emotion should be too much for her weak state, to tell her we would part no more.

"I took a room in the house, and determined to give all my attention to the restoration of her health; after which, I hoped to contrive to make my little fortune, with industry, support us both.

"I sat up with her that night; she got a little rest, she seemed better in the morning; she told me the particulars I have already related; she, however, endeavored to soften the cruel behaviour of the wretch, whose name I could not hear without horror.

"She had in the afternoon a little fever; I sent for a physician, he thought her in danger; what did not my heart feel from this information? she grew worse, I never left her one moment.

"The next morning she called me to her; she took my hand, and looking at me with a tenderness no language can describe,

"'My dear, my only friend,' said she, 'I am dying; you are come to receive the last breath of your unhappy Sophia: I wish with ardor for my father's blessing and forgiveness, but dare not ask them.

"'The weakness of my heart has undone me; I am lost, abandoned by him on whom my soul doated; by him, for whom I would have sacrificed a thousand lives; he has left me with my babe to perish, yet I still love him with unabated fondness: the pang of losing him sinks me to the grave!'

"Her speech here failed her for a time; but recovering, she proceeded,

"'Hard as this request may seem, and to whatever miseries it may expose my angel friend, I adjure you not to desert my child; save him from the wretchedness that threatens him; let him find in you a mother not less tender, but more virtuous, than his own.

"'I know, my f.a.n.n.y, I undo you by this cruel confidence; but who else will have mercy on this innocent?'

"Unable to answer, my heart torn with unutterable anguish, I s.n.a.t.c.hed the lovely babe to my bosom, I kissed him, I bathed him with my tears.

"She understood me, a gleam of pleasure brightened her dying eyes, the child was still pressed to my heart, she gazed on us both with a look of wild affection; then, clasping her hands together, and breathing a fervent prayer to heaven, sunk down, and expired without a groan--

"To you, Madam, I need not say the rest.

"The eloquence of angels could not paint my distress; I saw the friend of my soul, the best and most gentle of her s.e.x, a breathless corse before me; her heart broke by the ingrat.i.tude of the man she loved, her honor the sport of fools, her guiltless child a sharer in her shame.

"And all this ruin brought on by a sensibility of which the best minds alone are susceptible, by that n.o.ble integrity of soul which made it impossible for her to suspect another.

"Distracted with grief, I kissed my Sophia's pale lips, talked to her lifeless form; I promised to protect the sweet babe, who smiled on me, and with his little hand pressed mine, as if sensible of what I said.

"As soon as my grief was enough calmed to render me capable of any thing, I wrote an account of Sophia's death to her father, who had the inhumanity to refuse to see her child.

"I disdained an application to her murderer; and retiring to this place, where I was, and resolved to continue, unknown, determined to devote my life to the sweet infant, and to support him by an industry which I did not doubt heaven would prosper.

"The faithful girl who had attended Sophia, begged to continue with me; we work for the milleners in the neighbouring towns, and, with the little pittance I have, keep above want.

"I know the consequence of what I have undertaken; I know I give up the world and all hopes of happiness to myself: yet will I not desert this friendless little innocent, nor betray the confidence of my expiring friend, whose last moments were soothed with the hope of his finding a parent's care in me.

"You have had the goodness to wish to serve me. Sir Charles Verville is dead: a fever, the consequence of his ungoverned intemperance, carried him off suddenly: his brother Sir William has a worthy character; if Colonel Rivers, by his general acquaintance with the great world, can represent this story to him, it possibly may procure my little Charles happier prospects than my poverty can give him.

"Your goodness, Madam, makes it unnecessary to be more explicit: to be unhappy, and not to have merited it, is a sufficient claim to your protection.

"You are above the low prejudices of common minds; you will pity the wretched victim of her own unsuspecting heart, you will abhor the memory of her savage undoer, you will approve my complying with her dying request, though in contradiction to the selfish maxims of the world: you will, if in your power, endeavor to serve my little prattler.

"'Till I had explained my situation, I could not think of accepting the honor you allowed me to hope for, of enquiring after your health at Bellfield; if the step I have taken meets with your approbation, I shall be most happy to thank you and Colonel Rivers for your attention to one, whom you would before have been justified in supposing unworthy of it.

"I am, Madam, with the most perfect respect and grat.i.tude,

"Your obliged and obedient servant, F. Williams."

Your own heart, my dear Fitzgerald, will tell you what were our reflections on reading the inclosed: Emily, whose gentle heart feels for the weaknesses as well as misfortunes of others, will to-morrow fetch this heroic girl and her little ward, to spend a week at Bellfield; and we will then consider what is to be done for them.

You know Sir William Verville; go to him from me with the inclosed letter, he is a man of honor, and will, I am certain, provide for the poor babe, who, had not his father been a monster of unfeeling inhumanity, would have inherited the estate and t.i.tle Sir William now enjoys.

Is not the midnight murderer, my dear friend, white as snow to this vile seducer? this betrayer of unsuspecting, trusting, innocence? what transport is it to me to reflect, that not one bosom ever heaved a sigh of remorse of which I was the cause!

I grieve for the poor victim of a tenderness, amiable in itself, though productive of such dreadful consequences when not under the guidance of reason.

It ought to be a double tie on the honor of men, that the woman who truely loves gives up her will without reserve to the object of her affection.

Virtuous less from reasoning and fixed principle, than from elegance, and a lovely delicacy of mind; naturally tender, even to excess; carried away by a romance of sentiment; the helpless s.e.x are too easily seduced, by engaging their confidence, and piquing their generosity.

I cannot write; my heart is softened to a degree which makes me incapable of any thing.

Do not neglect one moment going to Sir William Verville.

Adieu!

Your affectionate Ed. Rivers.

LETTER 208.

To Colonel Rivers.

Oct. 28.

The story you have told me has equally shocked and astonished me: my sweet Bell has dropped a pitying tear on poor Sophia's grave.

Thank heaven! we meet with few minds like that of Sir Charles Verville; such a degree of savage insensibility is unnatural.

The human heart is created weak, not wicked: avid of pleasure and of gain; but with a mixture of benevolence which prevents our seeking either to the destruction of others.

Nothing can be more false than that we are naturally inclined to evil: we are indeed naturally inclined to gratify the selfish pa.s.sions of every kind; but those pa.s.sions are not evil in themselves, they only become so from excess.

The malevolent pa.s.sions are not inherent in our nature. They are only to be acquired by degrees, and generally are born from chagrin and disappointment; a wicked character is a depraved one.

What must this unhappy girl have suffered! no misery can equal the struggles of a virtuous mind wishing to act in a manner becoming its own dignity, yet carried by pa.s.sions to do otherwise.