Then, madam, I submit.
Why that's my kind Frank! As noble in this instance as in every
other--I could love you for it if you would let me--[In a moment my
heart was alarmed! I could feel myself change colour! I am certain she
saw my agitation; her manner told me so, for she instantly added, with
a kind of affectionate significance which I know not how to
interpret--] I would say as much to the whole world, but that it is a
foolish world, and wants the wit to conceive things truly as they are
meant.
She was gone in an instant, smiling, sailing, and her countenance
brightening with heavenly radiance, as she departed.
What can this be? Her words are continually resounding in my
ears!--_She could love me, if I would let her_!--Heavens!--Love
me?--Let her?--Let her!--Oh!--_It is a foolish world_--She fears its
censures--Love me!--Is it possible?--Tell me, Oliver, is it
possible?--_It wants the wit to conceive things truly as they are
meant_--Was this forbidding me to hope; or was it blaming the world's
prejudices?--I now not--Ah! To what purpose warn the moth, unless she
could put out the light?--Oh, blasphemy!--Love me if I would let
her?--I cannot forget it, Oliver!--I cannot!--Oh! I could weep like a
child, at my own conscious debility.
Why should I despair?--With a modern miss, a fine lady, I might; but
not with her. She has a mind superior to the world, and its mistakes.
And am I not convinced there ought to be no impediment to our union?
Why should I doubt of convincing her? She dare do all that truth and
justice can demand--And she could love me if I would let her--Is not my
despondency absurd?--Even did I know her present thoughts, and know
them to be inimical to my passion, what ought I to do? Not to desert my
own cause, if it be a just one: and, if it be the contrary, there is no
question: I will make none. Let me but be convinced of my error, and it
shall be renounced. Yes, Oliver, I dare boldly aver--it shall! But
shall I forego a right so precious, if it be mine?--No! Kingdoms shall
not tempt me!--Why is this timidity? Why does my heart palpitate? Why
with inward whispers do I murmur thoughts which I dare not speak aloud?
Why do they rise quivering to my lips, and there panting expire,
painfully struggling for birth, but in vain? Oh! How poorly do I paint
what so oppressively I feel!
I would have thee read my whole heart. I shudder to suppose it possible
I should be a seducer. Falsely to be thought so would trouble me but
little. But tamely to yield up felicity so inestimable, in compliance
with the errors of mankind to renounce a union which might and ought to
be productive of so much good, is not this a crime?--Speak without
fear. Shew me what is right. Convince me, then blame me if I quail.
And now, Oliver, it is probable thou wilt not see me for these three
months. Delicate as these money favours are become in the transactions
of men, contemptible as they often are in themselves, and unwilling as
I have been to subject myself to them, I am glad that she has
conquered. I would not have hesitated a moment; for obligation, if
obligation it were, to her would be heaven: but she has her own wants,
her own mode of doing good. These I was very desirous not to abridge.
But, since I must either comply or remain behind, I am glad to have
been so honourably vanquished.
My father, I know, is willing enough I should go to France, or where I
please, so that I do not ask him for money. Indeed he told me as much.
He thinks it matters not what becomes of a fellow so useless, and so
idle, as he supposes me to be. However I have written to inform him of
my intention, and once more to remind him, though certainly in vain, of
the manner in which he ought to act.
Ever thine,