How shall I, in fit manner, inscribe my letter to the loveliest of women!
I don't mean because of your loveliness; but whether as daughter or not,
as you did me the honour to call yourself. Really, and truly, I must
say, that I had rather call you by another name, though a little more
remote as to consanguinity. Lord have mercy upon me, how have I talked
of you! How many of our fine Caermarthen girls have I filled with envy
of your peerless perfections!
Here am I settled to my heart's content, could I but obtain--You know
whom I mean.--A town of gentry: A fine country round us--A fine estate of
our own. Esteemed, nay, for that matter, beloved, by all our neighbours
and tenants. Who so happy as Rowland Meredith, if his poor boy could be
happy!--Ah, madam!--And can't it be so? I am afraid of asking. Yet I
understand, that, notwithstanding all the jack-a-dandies that have been
fluttering about you, you are what you were when I lest town. Some
whispers have gone out of a fine gentleman, indeed, who had a great
kindness for you; but yet that something was in the way between you. The
Lord bless and prosper my dear daughter, as I must then call you, and not
niece, if you have any kindness for him. And if as how you have, it
would be wonderfully gracious if you would but give half a hint of it to
my nephew, or if so be you will not to him, to me, your father you know,
under your own precious hand. The Lord be good unto me! But I shall
never see the she that will strike my fancy, as you have done. But what
a dreadful thing would it be, if you, who are so much courted and admired
by many fine gallants, should at last be taken with a man who could not
be yours! God forbid that such a disastrous thing should happen! I
profess to you, madam, that a tear or two have strayed down my cheeks at
the thoughts of it. For why? Because you played no tricks with any man:
you never were a coquette, as they call them. You dealt plainly,
sincerely, and tenderly too, to all men; of which my nephew and I can
bear witness.
Well, but what now is the end of my writing?--Lord love you, cannot,
cannot you at last give comfort to two honest hearts? Honester you never
knew! And yet, if you could, I dare say you would. Well, then, and if
you can't, we must sit down as contented as we can; that's all we have
for it.--But, poor young man! Look at him, if you read this before him.
Strangely altered! Poor young man!--And if as how you cannot, why then,
God bless my daughter; that's all. And I do assure you, that you have
our prayers every Lord's day, from the bottom of our hearts.
And now, if you will keep a secret, I will tell it you; and yet, when I
began, I did not intend it: the poor youth must not know it. It is done
in the singleness of our hearts; and if you think we mean to gain your
love for us by it, I do assure you, that you wrong us.--My nephew
declares, that he never will marry, if it be not somebody: and he has
made his will, and so have I his uncle; and, let me tell you, that if as
how I cannot have a niece, my daughter shall be the better for having
known, and treated as kindly, as power was lent her,
Her true friend, loving father, and obedient servant,
ROWLAND MEREDITH.
Love and service to Mr. and Mrs. Reeves, and all friends who inquire
after me. Farewell. God bless you! Amen.
***
Have you, could you, Lucy, read this letter with dry eyes? Generous,
worthy, honest men! I read but half way before Mr. Fowler--Glad I was,
that I read no further. I should not have been able to have kept his
uncle's secret, if I had; had it been but to disclaim the acceptance of
the generous purpose. The carrying it into effect would exceedingly
distress me, besides the pain the demise of the honest man would give me;
and the more, as I bespoke the fatherly relation from him myself. If
such a thing were to be, Sir Charles Grandison's generosity to the Danbys
should be my example.
Do you know, Mr. Fowler, said I, the contents of the letter you have put
into my hand?
No farther than that my uncle told me, it contained professions of
fatherly love; and with wishes only--But without so much as expressing
his hopes.
Sir Rowland is a good man, said I: I have not read above half his letter.
There seems to be too much of the father in it, for me to read further,
before my brother. God bless my brother Fowler, and reward the fatherly
love of Sir Rowland to his daughter Byron! I must write to him.
Mr. Fowler, poor man! profoundly sighed; bowed; with such a look of
respectful acquiescence--Bless me, my dear, how am I to be distressed on
all sides! by good men too; as Sir Charles could say by good women.
Is there nothing less than giving myself to either, that I can do to shew
Mr. Orme and Mr. Fowler my true value for them?
Poor Mr. Fowler!--Indeed he looks to be, as Sir Rowland hints, not well.
--Such a modest, such a humble, such a silent lover!--He cost me tears at
parting: I could not hide them. He heaped praises and blessings upon me,
and hurried away at last, to hide his emotion, with a sentence
unfinished.--God preserve you, dear and worthy sir! was all I could try
to say. The last words stuck in my throat, till he was out of hearing;
and then I prayed for blessings upon him and his uncle: and repeated
them, with fresh tears, on reading the rest of the affecting letter.
Mr. Fowler told Mr. Reeves, before I saw him, that he is to go to
Caermarthen for the benefit of his native air, in a week. He let him
know where he lodged in town. He had been riding for his health and
diversion about the country, ever since his uncle went; and has not been
yet at Caermarthen.
I wish Mr. Fowler had once, if but once, called me sister: it would have
been such a kind acquiescence, as would have given me some little
pleasure on recollection. Methinks I don't know how to have done writing
of Sir Rowland and Mr. Fowler.
I sat down, however, while the uncle and nephew filled my thoughts, and
wrote to the former. I have enclosed the copy of my letter.
Adieu, my Lucy.