I cannot say that your lordship's countenance (I am a very free speaker)
has that benignity in it, that complacency, which I have had the pleasure
to see in it.
By G--! chevalier, I could have loved you better than any man in the
world, next to the men of my own family; but I own I see you not here
with so much love as admiration.
The word admiration, my lord, may require explanation. You may admire at
my confidence: but I thank you for the manly freedom of your
acknowledgment in general.
By admiration I mean, all that may do you honour. Your bravery in coming
hither, particularly; and your greatness of mind on your taking leave of
us all. But did you not then mean to insult me?
I meant to observe to you then, as I now do in your own palace, that you
had not treated me as my heart told me I deserved to be treated: but when
I thought your warmth was rising to the uneasiness of your assembled
friends, instead of answering your question about my stay at Bologna, as
you seemed to mean it, I invited myself to an attendance upon you here,
at Naples, in such a manner as surely could not be construed as insult.
I own, Grandison, you disconcerted me. I had intended to save you that
journey.
Was that your lordship's meaning, when, in my absence, you called at my
lodgings, the day after the farewell-visit?
Not absolutely: I was uneasy with myself. I intended to talk to you.
What that talk might have produced, I know not: but had I invited you
out, if I had found you at home, would you have answered my demands?
According as you had put them.
Will you answer them now, if I attend you as far as Rome, on your return
to Florence?
If they are demands fit to be answered.
Do you expect I will make any that are not fit to be answered?
My lord, I will explain myself. You had conceived causeless prejudices
against me: you seemed inclined to impute to me a misfortune that was
not, could not be, greater to you than it was to me. I knew my own
innocence: I knew that I was rather an injured man, in having hopes given
me, in which I was disappointed, not by my own fault: whom shall an
innocent and an injured man fear?--Had I feared, my fear might have been
my destruction. For was I not in the midst of your friends? A
foreigner? If I would have avoided you, could I, had you been determined
to seek me?--I would choose to meet even an enemy as a man of honour,
rather than to avoid him as a malefactor. In my country, the law
supposes flight a confession of guilt. Had you made demands upon me that
I had not chosen to answer, I would have expostulated with you. I could
perhaps have done so as calmly as I now speak. If you would not have
been expostulated with, I would have stood upon my defence: but for the
world I would not have hurt a brother of Clementina and Jeronymo, a son
of the marquis and marchioness of Porretta, could I have avoided it. Had
your passion given me any advantage over you, and I had obtained your
sword, (a pistol, had the choice been left to me, I had refused for both
our sakes,) I would have presented both swords to you, and bared my
breast: It was before penetrated by the distresses of the dear
Clementina, and of all your family--Perhaps I should only have said, 'If
your lordship thinks I have injured you, take your revenge.'
And now, that I am at Naples, let me say, that if you are determined,
contrary to all my hopes, to accompany me to Rome, or elsewhere, on my
return, with an unfriendly purpose; such, and no other, shall be my
behaviour to you, if the power be given me to shew it. I will rely on my
own innocence, and hope by generosity to overcome a generous man. Let
the guilty secure themselves by violence and murder.
Superlative pride! angrily said he, and stood still, measuring me with
his eye: And could you hope for such an advantage?
While I, my lord, was calm, and determined only upon self-defence; while
you were passionate, and perhaps rash, as aggressors generally are; I did
not doubt it: but could I have avoided drawing, and preserved your good
opinion, I would not have drawn. Your lordship cannot but know my
principles.
Grandison, I do know them; and also the general report in your favour for
skill and courage. Do you think I would have heard with patience of the
once proposed alliance, had not your character--And then he was pleased
to say many things in my favour, from the report of persons who had
weight with him; some of whom he named.
But still, Grandison, said he, this poor girl!--She could not have been
so deeply affected, had not some lover-like arts--
Let me, my lord, interrupt you--I cannot bear an imputation of this kind.
Had such arts been used, the lady could not have been so much affected.
Cannot you think of your noble sister, as a daughter of the two houses
from which you sprang? Cannot you see her, as by Mrs. Beaumont's means
we now so lately have been able to see her, struggling nobly with her own
heart, [Why am I put upon this tender subject?] because of her duty and
her religion; and resolved to die rather than encourage a wish that was
not warranted by both?--I cannot, my lord, urge this subject: but there
never was a passion so nobly contended with. There never was a man more
disinterested, and so circumstanced. Remember only, my voluntary
departure from Bologna, against persuasion; and the great behaviour of
your sister on that occasion; great, as it came out to be, when Mrs.
Beaumont brought her to acknowledge what would have been my glory to have
known, could it have been encouraged; but is now made my heaviest
concern.
Indeed, Grandison, she ever was a noble girl! We are too apt perhaps to
govern ourselves by events, without looking into causes: but the access
you had to her; such a man! and who became known to us from circumstances
so much in his favour, both as a man of principle and bravery--
This, my lord, interrupted I, is still judging from events. You have
seen Mrs. Beaumont's letter. Surely you cannot have a nobler monument of
magnanimity in woman! And to that I refer, for a proof of my own
integrity.
I have that letter: Jeronymo gave it me, at my taking leave of him; and
with these words: 'Grandison will certainly visit you at Naples. I am
afraid of your warmth. His spirit is well known. All my dependance is
upon his principles. He will not draw but in his own defence. Cherish
the noble visitor. Surely, brother, I may depend upon your hospitable
temper. Read over again this letter, before you see him.'--I have not
yet read it, proceeded the general; but I will, and that, if you will
allow me, now.
He took it out of his pocket, walked from me, and read it; and then came
to me, and took my hand--I am half ashamed of myself, my dear Grandison:
I own I wanted magnanimity. All the distresses of our family, on this
unhappy girl's account, were before my eyes, and I received you, I
behaved to you, as the author of them. I was contriving to be
dissatisfied with you: Forgive me, and command my best services. I will
let our Jeronymo know how greatly you subdued me before I had recourse to
the letter; but that I have since read that part of it which accounts for
my sister's passion, and wish I had read it with equal attention before.
I acquit you: I am proud of my sister. Yet I observe from this very
letter, that Jeronymo's gratitude has contributed to the evil we deplore.
But--Let us not say one word more of the unhappy girl: It is painful to
me to talk of her.