And when they went away, pouring out their very hearts in grateful joy, I
addressed myself to Mr. O'Hara. Sir, said I, it is proper that the
payment of the additional annuity should have a commencement. Let it be
from Christmas last. Accept of the first payment from my own hands--And
I gave him one 25£. note: and looking at my mother, with a look of duty,
for fear be should mistake, and discredit himself in the eyes of the
deepest discerner in the world, gave him the other.
He looked upon first one, then upon the other note with surprise--And
then bowing to the ground to me, and to my guardian, he stept to my
mother, and presented them both to her. You, madam, said he, must speak:
I cannot as I ought: God send me with a whole heart out of this house!
He hurried out, and when he was in the hall, wiped his eyes, and sobbed
like a child, as one of the servants told my Anne.
My mother looked upon one note as her husband had done, and upon the
other; and, lifting up her eyes, embraced me--And would have said
something to my guardian, but he prevented her, by saying--Emily will be
always dutiful to you, madam, and respectful to Mr. O'Hara: may you be
happy together!
And he led her out--Was ever such a condescension! He led her out to her
husband, who, being a little recovered, was just about to give some money
to the servant, who was retiring from the offer.--Nobody, said my
guardian, graciously smiling, pays my servants but myself, Mr. O'Hara.
They are good people, and merit my favour.
And he went to the very door with my mother. I could not. I ran back,
crying for joy, into the drawing-room, when they went out of it. I could
not bear myself. How could I, you know, madam?--Captain Salmonet all the
time wiped his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, lifted up his hands, and
cried out upon Jesu; and once or twice he crossed himself: but all the
time my guardian looked and acted, as if those actions and praises were
nothing to be proud of.
When he came in to me, I arose, and threw myself at his feet; but could
only say, Thank you, sir, for your goodness to my mother. He raised me.
He sat down by me: See, child, (said he, and he took my hand: my heart
was sensible of the favour, and throbbed with joy,) what it is in the
power of people of fortune to do. You have a great one. Now your mother
is married, I have hopes of her. They will at least keep up appearances
to each other, and to the world. They neither of them want sense. You
have done an act of duty and benevolence both in one. The man who would
grudge them this additional 200£. a year out of your fortune, to make
your parent happy, shall not have my Emily--Shall he?
Your Emily, your happy Emily, sir, has not, cannot have a heart that is
worth notice, if it be not implicitly guided by you.--This I said, madam:
and it is true.
And did he not, said I, clasp his Emily to his generous bosom, when you
said so?
No, madam; that would have been too great an honour: but he called me,
good child! and said, you shall never be put to pay me an implicit
regard: your own reason (and he called me child again) shall always be
the judge of my conduct to you, and direct your observances of my advice.
Something like this he said; but in a better manner than I can say it.
He calls me oftener child, madam, than any thing else when we are alone
together; and is not quite so free, I think, at such times, in his
behaviour to me, (yet is vastly gracious, I don't know how,) as when we
are in company--Why is that? I am sure, I equally respect him, at one
time as at another--Do you think, madam, there is any thing in the
observation? Is there any reason for it?--I do love to study him, and to
find out the meaning of his very looks as well as words. Sir Charles
Grandison's heart is the book of heaven--May I not study it?
Study it, my love! while you have an opportunity. But he will soon leave
us: he will soon leave England.
So I fear: and I will love and pity the poor Clementina, whose heart is
so much wounded and oppressed. But my guardian shall be nobody's but
yours. I have prayed night and day, the first thing and the last thing,
ever since I have heard of Lady Clementina, that you, and nobody but you,
may be Lady Grandison: and I will continue my prayers.--But will you
forgive me: I always conclude them with praying, that you will both
consent to let the poor Emily live with you.
Sweet girl! The poor Emily, said she?--I embraced her, and we mingled
tears, both our hearts full, each for the other; and each perhaps for
herself.
She hurried away. I resumed my pen.--Run off what had passed, almost as
swift as thought. I quit it to prepare to attend my cousins to St.
James's-square.