EVELINA TO MISS MIRVAN. Berry Hill, July 21st.
YOU accuse me of mystery, and charge me with reserve: I cannot doubt
but I must have merited the accusation; yet, to clear myself,-you
know not how painful will be the task. But I cannot resist your kind
entreaties;-indeed I do not wish to resist them; for your friendship
and affection will soothe my chagrin. Had it arisen from any other
cause, not a moment would I have deferred the communication you
ask;-but as it is, I would, were it possible, not only conceal it
from all the world, but endeavour to disbelieve it myself. Yet since
I must tell you, why trifle with your impatience?
I know not how to come to the point; twenty times have I attempted
it in vain;-but I will force myself to proceed.
Oh, Miss Mirvan, could you ever have believed, that one who
seemed formed as a pattern for his fellow-creatures, as a model of
perfection,-one whose elegance surpassed all description,-whose
sweetness of manners disgraced all comparison;-oh, Miss Mirvan,
could you ever have believed that Lord Orville, would have treated
me with indignity?
Never, never again will I trust to appearances;-never confide in my
own weak judgment;-never believe that person to be good who seems
to be amiable! What cruel maxims are we taught by a knowledge of the
world!-But while my own reflections absorb me, I forget you are still
in suspense.
I had just finished the last letter which I wrote to you from London,
when the maid of the house brought me a note. It was given to her,
she said, by a footman, who told her he would call the next day for
an answer.
This note,-but let it speak for itself.
"To Miss Anville.
"With transport, most charming of thy sex, did I read
the letter
with which you yesterday morning favoured me. I am sorry the
affair of the carriage should have given you any concern,
but I am highly flattered by the anxiety you express so
kindly. Believe me, my lovely girl, I am truly sensible
to the honour of your good opinion, and feel myself deeply
penetrated with love and gratitude. The correspondence you
have so sweetly commenced, I shall be proud of continuing;
and I hope the strong sense I have of the favour you do me
will prevent your withdrawing it. Assure yourself, that I
desire nothing more ardently than to pour forth my thanks at
your feet, and to offer those vows which are so justly the
tribute of your charms and accomplishments. In your next
I intreat you to acquaint me how long you shall remain in
town. The servant, whom I shall commission to call for an
answer, has orders to ride post with it to me. My impatience
for his arrival will be very great, though inferior to that
with which I burn to tell you, in person, how much I am,
my sweet girl, your grateful admirer, "ORVILLE."
What a letter! how has my proud heart swelled every line I have
copied! What I wrote to him you know; tell me, then, my dear friend,
do you think it merited such an answer?-and that I have deservedly
incurred the liberty he has taken? I meant nothing but a simple
apology, which I thought as much due to my own character as to his;
yet by the construction he seems to have put upon it, should you not
have imagined it contained the avowal of sentiments which might indeed
have provoked his contempt?
The moment the letter was delivered to me, I retired to my own room
to read it; and so eager was my first perusal, that,-I am ashamed
to own,-it gave me no sensation but of delight. Unsuspicious of
any impropriety from Lord Orville, I perceived not immediately the
impertinence it implied,-I only marked the expressions of his own
regard; and I was so much surprised, that I was unable for some time
to compose myself, or read it again:-I could only walk up and down
the room, repeating to myself, "Good God, is it possible?-am I then
loved by Lord Orville?"
But this dream was soon over, and I awoke to far different
feelings. Upon a second reading I thought every word changed,-it did
not seem the same letter,-I could not find one sentence that I could
look at without blushing: my astonishment was extreme, and it was
succeeded by the utmost indignation.
If, as I am very ready to acknowledge, I erred in writing to Lord
Orville, was it for him to punish the error? If he was offended,
could he not have been silent? If he thought my letter ill-judged,
should he not have pitied my ignorance? have considered my youth,
and allowed for my inexperience?
Oh, Maria! how have I been deceived in this man! Words have no
power to tell the high opinion I had of him; to that was owing the
unfortunate solicitude which prompted my writing; a solicitude I must
for ever repent!
Yet perhaps I have rather reason to rejoice than to grieve, since this
affair has shown me his real disposition, and removed that partiality
which, covering his every imperfection, left only his virtues and
good qualities exposed to view. Had the deception continued much
longer, had my mind received any additional prejudice in his favour,
who knows whither my mistaken ideas might have led me? Indeed I fear I
was in greater danger than I apprehended, or can now think of without
trembling;-for, oh, if this weak heart of mine had been penetrated
with too deep an impression of his merit,-my peace and happiness had
been lost for ever.
I would fain encourage more cheerful thoughts, fain drive from my
mind the melancholy that has taken possession of it; but I cannot
succeed: for, added to the humiliating feelings which so powerfully
oppress me, I have yet another cause of concern;-alas, my dear Maria,
I have broken the tranquillity of the best of men!
I have never had the courage to show him this cruel letter; I could
not bear so greatly to depreciate in his opinion, one whom I had, with
infinite anxiety, raised in it myself. Indeed, my first determination
was to confine my chagrin totally to my own bosom; but your friendly
enquiries have drawn it from me: and now I wish I had made no
concealment from the beginning, since I know not how to account for
a gravity, which not all my endeavours can entirely hide or repress.
My greatest apprehension is, lest he should imagine that my residence
in London has given me a distaste to the country. Every body I see
takes notice of my being altered, and looking pale and ill. I should
be very indifferent to all such observations, did I not perceive
that they draw upon me the eyes of Mr. Villars, which glisten with
affectionate concern.
This morning, in speaking of my London expedition he mentioned Lord
Orville. I felt so much disturbed, that I would instantly have changed
the subject; but he would not allow me, and, very unexpectedly,
he began his panegyric; extolling in strong terms, his manly and
honourable behaviour in regard to the Marybone adventure. My cheeks
glowed with indignation every word he spoke;-so lately as I had myself
fancied him the noblest of his sex, now that I was so well convinced
of my mistake, I could not bear to hear his undeserved praises uttered
by one so really good, so unsuspecting, so pure of heart.
What he thought of my silence and uneasiness I fear to know; but I
hope he will mention the subject no more. I will not, however, with
ungrateful indolence, give way to a sadness which I find infectious to
him who merits the most cheerful exertion of my spirits. I am thankful
that he has forborne to probe my wound; and I will endeavour to heal
it by the consciousness that I have not deserved the indignity I
have received. Yet I cannot but lament to find myself in a world so
deceitful, where we must suspect what we see, distrust what we hear,
and doubt even what we feel!