THE following portion of my narrative would assuredly have been more
interesting had the gentle Angiola fallen in love with me, or if I had at
least run half mad to enliven my solitude. There was, however, another
sentiment, that of simple benevolence, no less dear to me, which united
our hearts in one. And if, at any moment, I felt there was the least
risk of its changing its nature in my vain, weak heart, it produced only
sincere regret.
Once, certainly, having my doubts that this would happen, and finding
her, to my sorrow, a hundred times more beautiful than I had at first
imagined; feeling too so very melancholy when she was absent, so joyous
when near, I took upon myself to play the _unamiable_, in the idea that
this would remove all danger by making her leave off the same
affectionate and familiar manner. This innocent stratagem was tried in
vain; the poor girl was so patient, so full of compassion for me. She
would look at me in silence, with her elbow resting upon the window, and
say, after a long pause, “I see, sir, you are tired of my company, yet
_I_ would stay here the whole day if I could, merely to keep the hours
from hanging so heavy upon you. This ill-humour of yours is the natural
effect of your long solitude; if you were able to chat awhile, you would
be quite well again. If you don’t like to talk, I will talk for you.”
“About your lover, eh?”
“No, no; not always about him; I can talk of many things.”
She then began to give me some extracts from the household annals,
dwelling upon the sharp temper of her mother, her good-natured father,
and the monkey-tricks of her little brothers; and she told all this with
a simple grace and innocent frankness not a little alluring. Yet I was
pretty near the truth; for, without being aware of it, she uniformly
concluded with the one favourite theme: her ill-starred love. Still I
went on acting the part of the _unamiable_, in the hope that she would
take a spite against me. But whether from inadvertency or design, she
would not take the hint, and I was at last fairly compelled to give up by
sitting down contented to let her have her way, smiling, sympathising
with, and thanking her for the sweet patience with which she had so long
borne with me.
I no longer indulged the ungracious idea of spiting her against me, and,
by degrees, all my other fears were allayed. Assuredly I had not been
smitten; I long examined into the nature of my scruples, wrote down my
reflections upon the subject, and derived no little advantage from the
process.
Man often terrifies himself with mere bugbears of the mind. If we would
learn not to fear them, we have only to examine them a little more nearly
and attentively. What harm, then, if I looked forward to her visits to
me with a tender anxiety, if I appreciated their sweetness, if it did me
good to be compassioned by her, and to interchange all our thoughts and
feelings, unsullied, I will say, as those of childhood. Even her most
affectionate looks, and smiles, and pressures of the hand, while they
agitated me, produced a feeling of salutary respect mingled with
compassion. One evening, I remember, when suffering under a sad
misfortune, the poor girl threw her arms round my neck, and wept as if
her heart would break. She had not the least idea of impropriety; no
daughter could embrace a father with more perfect innocence and
unsuspecting affection. I could not, however, reflect upon that embrace
without feeling somewhat agitated. It often recurred to my imagination,
and I could then think of no other subject. On another occasion, when
she thus threw herself upon my confidence, I was really obliged to
disentangle myself from her dear arms, ere I once pressed her to my
bosom, or gave her a single kiss, while I stammered out, “I pray you,
now, sweet Angiola, do not embrace me ever again; it is not quite
proper.” She fixed her eyes upon me for a moment, then cast them down,
while a blush suffused her ingenuous countenance; and I am sure it was
the first time that she read in my mind even the possibility of any
weakness of mine in reference to her. Still she did not cease to
continue her visits upon the same friendly footing, with a little mere
reserve and respect, such as I wished it to be; and I was grateful to her
for it.