By my soul, Oliver, I have no conception of rapture superior to what I
experienced at that moment! She had collected all her feelings, all her
invention, had composed a most beautiful air, and sung it with an
effect that must have been heard to be supposed possible. The force
with which she uttered every thought to the climax of daring, and the
compassion which she infused into the conclusion 'But do not dare to
love'--produced the most affecting contrast I ever heard.
This indeed was heaven, Oliver! But a heaven that ominously vanished,
at the entrance of Clifton. I followed him, and saw her shut the book,
and wipe the tear from her eye. Her flow of spirits is unfailing, but
the tone of her mind was raised too high suddenly to sink into
trifling. She looked at me two or three times. I know not for my part
what aspect I wore; but I could observe that the haughty Clifton felt
the gaiety of his heart in some sort disturbed, and was not pleased to
catch me listening, with such mute attention, to the ravishing music
she had made.
Once again prithee tell me, Oliver, what am I to think? It was
impossible she should have sung as she did, had not the ideas affected
her more than I could have hoped, nay as much as they did myself. She
knew the writing. Why did she sigh? Why feel indignant? Why express
every sentiment that had passed through my mind with increasing
force?--What could she think?--Did she not approve?--She sung as if she
admired!--The world shall not persuade me that her looks were not the
true expressions of her heart; and she looked--! Recollect her, and the
temper of mind she was in, and imagine how!--Remember--_She could love
me if I would let her!_
I was displeased with the verses when I had written them: they were
very inadequate to what I wished. I discovered in some of the lines a
barren repetition of the preceding thought, and meant to have corrected
them. But I would not now alter a word for worlds! She has deigned to
set and sing them; and what was before but of little worth is now
inestimable.
Yet am I far from satisfied with myself. My present state of mind is
disgraceful; for it cannot but be disgraceful to be kept in doubt by my
own cowardice. And if I am deceiving myself--Can it be possible,
Oliver?--But if I am, my present error is indeed alarming. The
difficulty of retreating momentarily increases, and every step in
advance will be miles in return.
Clifton will suffer no impediment from the cowardice of which I
complain; for I much mistake if he has been accustomed to refusal; or
if he can scarcely think, when he deigns to sue, denial possible.
I find myself every day determining to put an end to this suspense, and
every day delaying. The impulse however is too great to be long
resisted; and my excuse to myself continually is that I have not yet
found the proper moment.
If, Oliver, this history of my heart be troublesome to thee, it is thy
duty to tell me so. But indeed thou tellest me the contrary; and I
know not why at this instant I should do thee the injustice to doubt
thy sincerity. Forgive me. It is a friendly fear, and not intended to
do thee wrong. But I wish thee to judge of me and my actions; and even
to let thy father judge, if thou shouldest at any time hesitate, and
fear I am committing error. Do this, and continue thy usual kindness in
communicating thy thoughts.