I have not seen Mr. Clifton? Right--But I said I had made the promise
to _myself_.
Poor Frank could contain no longer! I see, madam, said he, I am
despised; and I deserve contempt; I crouch to it, I invite it, and have
obtained a full portion of it--Yet why?--What have I done?--Why is this
sudden change?--The false glitter that deceives mankind then is
irresistible!--But surely, madam, justice is as much my due as if my
name were Clifton. Spurn me, trample on me, when I sully myself by vice
and infamy! But till then I should once have hoped to have escaped
being humbled in the dust, by one whom I regarded as the most
benignant, as well as the most deserving and equitable of earthly
creatures!
This is indeed a heavy charge: and I am afraid much of it is too true.
Here is company coming. I am sorry I cannot answer it immediately.
I can suffer any thing rather than exist under my present tortures.
Will you favour me so far, madam, as to grant me half an hour's
hearing?
Willingly. It is what I wish. Come to my apartment after dinner.
Clifton came up, and I have no doubt read in our countenances that
something more than common had passed. Indeed I perceived it, or
thought so; but his imagination took another turn, in consequence of my
informing him, that I had been just telling Frank I had promised myself
to be his (Clifton's) partner. He thanked me, his countenance shewed it
as well as his words, for my kindness. He was coming, he said, to
petition, the instant he had heard of the dance. But still he looked at
Frank, as if he thought it strange that I should condescend to account
to him for my thoughts and promises.
Dinner time came, and we sat down to table. But the mind is sometimes
too busy to attend to the appetites. I and Frank ate but little. He
rose first from table, that he might not seem to follow me. His
delicacy never slumbers. I took the first opportunity to retire. Frank
was presently with me, and our dialogue began. The struggle of the
feelings ordained that I should be the first speaker.
I have been thinking very seriously, Frank, of what you said to me this
morning.
Would to heaven you could forget it, madam!
Why so?
I was unjust! A madman! A vain fool! An idiot!--Pardon this rude
vehemence, but I cannot forgive myself for having been so ready to
accuse one whom--! I cannot speak my feelings!--I have deserted
myself!--I am no longer the creature of reason, but the child of
passion!--My mind is all tumult, all incongruity!
You wrong yourself. The error has been mutual, or rather I have been
much the most to blame. I am very sensible of, and indeed very sorry
for my mistake--Indeed I am--I perceived you indulging hopes that
cannot be realized, and--
Cannot, madam?
Never!--I can see you think yourself despised; but you do yourself
great wrong.
My mind is so disturbed, by the abrupt and absurd folly with which I
accused you, unheard, this morning, that it is less now in a state to
do my cause justice than at any other time--Still I will be a man--Your
word, madam, was--Cannot!--
It was.
Permit me to ask, is it person--?
No--certainly not. Person would with me be always a distant
consideration. [You, Louisa, know how very far from exceptionable the
person of Frank is, if that were any part of the question.]
You are no flatterer, madam, and you have thought proper occasionally
to express your approbation of my morals and mind.
Yet my expressions have never equalled my feelings!--Never!
Then, madam, where is the impossibility? In what does it consist? The
world may think meanly of me, for the want of what I myself hold in
contempt: but surely you cannot join in the world's injustice?