This, then, madam, is my answer--I hope I am an honest creature: I have
not a heart to give.
Then you have expectations, my dear.--Well, I will call you mine, if I
can. Never did I think that I could have made the proposal, that I am
going to make you: but in my eyes, as well as in my lord's, you are an
incomparable young woman.--This is it.--We will not think of the alliance
proposed to us (it is yet but a proposal, and to which we have not
returned any answer) till we see what turn the affair Sir Charles is gone
upon, takes. You once said, you could prefer my son to any of the men
that had hitherto applied to you for your favour. Your affections to Sir
Charles were engaged before you knew us. Will you allow my son this
preference, which will be the first preference, if Sir Charles engages
himself abroad?
Your ladyship surprises me: shall I not improve by the example you have
just now set before me? Who was it that said (and a man too) 'With what
face could I look up to a woman of honour and delicacy, such a one as the
lady before whom I now stand, if I could own a wish, that, while' my
heart leaned to one person, I should think of keeping another in suspense
till I saw whether I could or could not be the other's? 'No, madam, I
would sooner die,' as Sir Charles said, 'than offer such an indignity to
both.' But I know, madam, that you only made this proposal, as you did
another to Sir Charles Grandison, as a trial of my heart.
Upon my word, my dear, I should, I think, be glad to be entitled to such
an excuse: but I was really in earnest; and now take a little shame to
myself.
What charming ingenuousness in this lady!
She clasped her arms about me, and kissed my cheek again. I have but one
plea, said she, to make for myself; I could not have fallen into such an
error, (the example so recently given to the contrary,) had I not wished
you to be, before any woman in the world, Countess of D----. Noble
creature! No title can give you dignity. May your own wishes be
granted!
My cousin's eyes ran over with pleasure.
The countess asked, When I returned to Northamptonshire? I told her my
intention. She charged me to see her first. But can tell you, said she,
my lord shall not be present when you come: not once more will I trust
him in your company; and if he should steal a visit, unknown to me, let
not your cousin see him, Mrs. Reeves. He does indeed admire you, love.
I acknowledged, with a grateful heart, her goodness to me. She engaged
me to correspond with her when I got home. Her commands were an honour
done me, that I could not refuse myself. Her son, she smilingly told me,
should no more see my letters, than my person.
At her going away--I will tell you one thing, said she: I never before,
in a business which my heart was set upon, was so effectually silenced by
a precedent produced by myself in the same conversation. I came with an
assurance of success. When our hearts are engaged in a hope, we are apt
to think every step we take for the promoting it, reasonable: Our
passions, my dear, will evermore run away with our judgment. But, now I
think of it, I must, when I say our, make two exceptions; one for you,
and one for Sir Charles Grandison.
But, Lucy, tell me--May I, do you think, explain the meaning of the word
SELFISH used by Sir Charles in the conclusion of the library conference
at Colnebrook, (and which puzzled me then to make out,) by his
disclaiming of selfishness in the conversation with the countess above
recited? If I may, what an opening of his heart does that word give in
my favour, were he at liberty? Does it not look, my dear, as if his
honour checked him, when his love would have prompted him to wish me to
preserve my heart disengaged till his return from abroad? Nor let it be
said, that it was dishonourable in him to have such a thought, as it was
checked and overcome; and as it was succeeded by such an emotion, that he
was obliged to depart abruptly from me.--Let me repeat the words--You may
not have my letter at hand which relates that affecting address to me;
and it is impossible for me, while I have memory, to forget them. He had
just concluded his brief history of Clementina--'And now, madam, what can
I say?--Honour forbids me!--Yet honour bids me--Yet I cannot be unjust,
ungenerous, selfish!'--If I may flatter myself, Lucy, that he did love me
when he said this, and that he had a conflict in his noble heart between
the love on one side so hopeless, (for I could not forgive him, if he did
not love, as well as pity, Clementina,) and on the other not so hopeless,
were there to have been no bar between--Shall we not pity him for the
arduous struggle? Shall we not see that honour carried it, even in
favour of the hopeless against the hopeful, and applaud him the more for
being able to overcome? How shall we call virtue by its name, if it be
not tried; and if it hath no contest with inclination?
If I am a vain self-flatterer, tell me, chide me, Lucy; but allow me,
however, at the same time, this praise, if I can make good my claim to
it, that my conquest of my passion is at least as glorious for me, as his
is for him, were he to love me ever so well; since I can most sincerely,
however painfully, subscribe to the preference which honour, love,
compassion, unitedly, give to CLEMENTINA.