By a little before eight on the following evening, the party I have
before mentioned all sat down to dinner at Lord Lowther's in Pall Mall.
Lord Yarmouth was at the bottom of the table, opposite to Lord Lowther;
Amy, on Lowther's right hand, Fanny at his left; Street, the editor,
was her neighbour; and I sat next to Croker. Poor Julia had not been
invited. Lord Hertford, who at his own table is always particularly
entertaining, was a little out of sorts here, which generally happened
to him when he dined with Lowther, who gave a very bad dinner.
Lord Hertford very candidly owns that he dislikes a bad dinner; and I
had heard him own it so often to Lord Lowther, that I was surprised
his lordship invited him at all, unless he had thought proper to have
provided a good one.
The claret, Lowther said, he wanted Lord Hertford's opinion about,
having just provided himself with a large quantity of it, in consequence
of its quality having been strongly recommended to him.
Our first glass had scarcely gone round, when Lord Hertford said, in
his usual, loud, odd voice, addressing Lowther, "You asked me for my
opinion, and I will give it you; your claret is not worth a d--n."
Poor Lowther looked a little annoyed.
Croker fought on his side. "I must differ in opinion with you, Lord
Hertford," said he, in his starched pragmatical manner. "I think the
claret excellent."
"With all my heart," said Hertford, in a tone and manner of the most
perfect indifference.
"How is your poetical doctor?" Lowther asked me; alluding to my
physician, Doctor Nevinson, who, during a serious illness in which he
had attended me, had been kind enough to sing my praise in his best
rhymes.
I was very earnest in my commendations of that gentleman, believing
myself under some obligations to him.
"These doctors are lucky fellows," Croker observed, affectedly.
"Not always," said I. "I have here a few lines, poor old Eliot of the
Audit Office made at my house this morning, on Dr. Nevinson's hard
case;" and I put into his hand a small bit of paper which was in my
reticule.
"What flirtation is going on there, pray, between you two?" inquired
Street, who observed me.
"Nothing," I replied, "but a few bad rhymes about Dr. Nevinson."
"Read! read!" exclaimed they all.
Between Lord Lowther's scanty courses there was ever room for
reflection, even to madness.
Mr. Secretary Croker read, as follows:
THE PHYSICIAN'S PRAYER TO ÆOLUS.
God of the winds, oh! grant my prayer,
And end this solemn frolic;
Or, when I next attend the fair,
Defend them from the cholic.
But if thy brother of the bow
To physic bind me fast,
Grant that the old from me may go,
For cure, to Dr. Last!
Release me from the dry concern
Of listening to their moaning,
And from your votary ever turn
Old dames with cholic groaning!
For patients, oh, to me impart
The gay, the young, the witty;
Such as may interest the heart.
This prayer, oh grant, in pity!
"Allow me to look at them," said Street, as soon as Croker had finished
reading.
"I think Eliot clever," said Hertford. "What has become of him?"
"Oh," replied Amy, "I believe he is going to die he has grown so very
dull and heavy. Do you know, I told him a very interesting story one day
last week, and he did not at all listen to it; and before I had finished
repeating it a second time he fell fast asleep."
"Poor fellow!" said Street: he could not stand the second edition.
Mr. Graham sat on my left hand, and was as attentive to me as possible.
Graham was a beauty; a very Apollo in form, with handsome features,
particularly his teeth and eyes; sensible too, and well educated.
"I brought you two together, because I knew you would fall in love with
each other," said Lowther.
"How impossible," thought I, as the stranger in Hyde Park, as I last saw
him, or fancied I saw him blush, crossed my mind. I was not disposed to
admire anything else, indeed; but I rather think Graham was pedantic.
He spoke to me a good deal of Fred Lamb, with whom he had been
travelling on the Continent.
"Fred Lamb has often been jealous of me," said Graham; "but he would be
jealous of any man; yet I have always liked Fred much better than ever
he liked me."
"His passion for women is so very violent," I observed, "that somehow or
other, it disgusted me."
"All ladies are not so refined," replied Graham, laughing.
"Perhaps not," answered I; "perhaps I may not be so refined when I like
my man better."
Street was all this time making hard love to Fanny. Poor Street though
a very pleasant man, is, as he knows, a very ugly one. Fanny's extreme
good nature was always a Refuge for the Destitute. If ever there was a
lame, a deaf, a blind, or an ugly man, in our society, Fanny invariably
made up to that man immediately, to put him in countenance. Nay, she
would, I believe, have made up to the Duke of Devonshire, blind, deaf,
absent and all, had he fallen in her way.
At this moment, my ear caught the word cruel, as applied to Fanny by
Street.
"Quite the reverse, Fanny is all goodness," I exclaimed.
"Yes," rejoined Street, "as far as words go."
"It is you, Mr. Street, who cruelly neglect me, on the contrary," said
Fanny, laughing.
"Never!" answered Street, laying his hand on his heart.
"Then why did you not call at the oilshop?" Fanny asked; alluding to
the place where she had formerly been lodging for a short time in Park
Street, and to which she had invited Street.
"Wounded pride!" observed Street.
"She would have poured oil into your wounds," said Lord Hertford.
"I'll thank you to pass me another bottle of this bad claret," squeaked
out Croker; "for I must be candid enough to say that I like it much."
"I wont abuse it again," Lord Hertford observed, "for fear you should
get drunk."
I now grew tired of waiting for Amy to make a first move, and began
to think she was ill disposed in the humility of her heart to take
upon her the privilege of eldest sister: so I made it for her and we
retired to Lowther's drawing-room, from which we took a peep into his
dressing-room, where we found a set of vile, dirty combs, brushes,
towels, and dressing-gowns. Lowther, who always has a pain in his liver,
and knows not how to take kindly to his bottle, entered his apartment,
just as we were loudest in our exclamations of horror and dismay, as
these said dirty objects offered themselves to our view.
"For heaven's sake," said Amy, with whom Lowther was certainly in love,
"do turn away your valet, and burn these nasty, dirty brushes and
things."
"It will be no use, I believe," replied Lowther; "for every valet will
copy his master."
"What! then," exclaimed Amy, "you admit the master is dirty?"
Lowther feared he must plead guilty.
"I am very glad I ran away from you," retorted Amy, who had gone with
him into the country, and afterwards cut him because he did not ask for
a separate dressing-room at the inns on the road.
The other gentlemen soon joined us in the drawing-room, drank their
coffee, and then we were all on to the Opera.
I had the honour of taking Mr. Graham there in my carriage with Fanny.
Amy went with Lord Lowther.
We found Julia in our private box, alone and half asleep, dressed very
elegantly; and, in my opinion, looking very interesting and well.
"What, alone?" said I. "Why do you not make the men more civil?" and I
introduced her to young Graham.
Julia had lately got nearly to the bottom of her heroics with Cotton.
She was ashamed to admit the idea even to herself; she never would own
it to me: but the fact was, she was tired of Cotton, and dying, and
sighing, and longing secretly for something new. Young and beautiful,
her passions, like those of a man, were violent and changeable; in
addition to which she had lately suffered every possible indignity and
inconvenience which debts and duns could inflict; besides, Fanny and
I, who knew that Mr. Cotton had a wife and large family at home, had
laboured with all our hearts to disgust Julia with Cotton, believing
that it would be for the good of both that they separated for ever.
Cotton had not a shilling to spare for the support of Julia's children;
and Julia's accouchements took place regularly once in eleven months.
She had often vainly applied to her parents, as well as to her uncle,
Lord Carysfort, who only wrote to load her with reproaches.
As soon as Graham had left us, Julia expressed her admiration of him, in
very warm terms.
"He has no money," said Fanny; "besides, I can see that he is making up
to Harriette. Do, my dear Julia, consider all your beautiful children;
and, if you can leave Cotton to his poor wife, and must form another
connection, let it be with some one who can contribute to the support of
your young family."
Julia assured us she was at that moment actually in expectation of being
arrested; and she entreated that Fanny or I would make an application to
some of her noble relations, which she promised to do.
This point being decided, she again talked of Graham's beauty, wondered
where he was, and anxiously inquired whether I was sure that he had
taken a fancy for me.
"Not a bit sure," I replied. "I know nothing at all of the matter,
neither do I care."
Fanny then related all about my last meeting with my stranger and his
dog to Julia, who seemed to understand my sensations much better than
Fanny did.
"Oh, _mon Dieu_?" interrupted I, "there is in that box next to Lady
Foley's, a man--no, it is still handsomer than my stranger! and yet"
(the stranger turned his head towards our side of the house)--"Oh!"
continued I, taking hold of Fanny's hand, in a fit of rapture, "it is
he! only his hat, till now, concealed that beautiful head of hair."
"Where? where?" cried out they both at once.
"Oh! that some one would come into our box now and tell us who he is!" I
exclaimed.
"How provoking you are," said Julia. "Why do not you point out the man
to us?"
"It is that man, who is laughing.--Oh! I had no idea that his teeth were
so very beautiful!"
"Dear me, how tiresome," observed Fanny, quietly. "If you will not tell
us which is your man let us talk of something else."
"He is there," replied I, "next to Lady Foley's box, leaning on his arm."
Julia put her glass to her eye as usual; being remarkably short-sighted
she could distinguish nothing without it.
"I know him," said Julia, after fixing him for some time.
"Not much?" I observed, almost breathless. "Did you ever speak to him?"
"I have met him in society, when I was a girl," continued Julia; "but I
was intimate with a girl, to whom, when young, he proposed. Her wedding
clothes were made; she used to sleep in my room, with his picture round
her neck. She adored him beyond all that could be imagined of love and
devotion, and within a few days of their proposed marriage he declared
off. His excuse was that his father refused his consent."
"For many years," continued Julia, "my friend's sufferings were severe;
her parents trembled for her reason. No one was permitted to name her
former lover in her presence. She is now Lady Conyngham."
"And his name?" said I.
"Lord Ponsonby, who is supposed to be the handsomest man in England: but
he must now be forty, if not more," replied Julia.
"I wish he were sixty," I answered. "As it is, I have no chance: but
indeed I never thought I had. He is a sort of man I think I could be
wicked enough to say my prayers to. I could live in his happiness only
without his knowing me. I could wait for hours near his house for the
chance of seeing him pass or hearing his voice."
Fanny laughed outright.
Julia only exclaimed, "Well done, Harriette! You are more romantic than
ever I was at your age, and I thought that was impossible."
"You did not love Lord Ponsonby," retorted I.
"True," said Julia: "badinage apart, Ponsonby is, as I have always been
told, very near perfection. But what chance can you have? He is married
to the loveliest creature on earth--the youngest daughter of Lord
Jersey."
"I knew very well," sighed I despondingly, "before I heard of his
marriage, that I should never be anything to him."
"I will tell you where he lives," said Julia. "It is in Curzon Street,
May Fair."
"Well then," thought I, "at least when he passes me, I shall not, as
yesterday, fancy I am looking at him for the last time."
Upon the whole my spirits were violently elated this evening. Lord
Ponsonby I believe did not perceive me. I was most anxious, yet afraid,
to see his wife.
"I cannot find her box," observed Julia, "else I should know her
immediately."
We now lost sight of his lordship for some time, he having left the
box I first saw him in. I perceived him for an instant afterwards, but
missed him altogether before the opera was over.
"I am glad I have not seen his wife," said I, after we were seated in
the carriage. "I hope I shall never see her as long as I live."
I resolved now to make no kind of advances to become acquainted with
Lord Ponsonby; but on the very next evening I indulged myself in passing
his house at least fifty times. I saw and examined the countenances of
his footmen and the colour of his window-curtains: even the knocker
of his door escaped not my veneration, since Lord Ponsonby must have
touched it so often. My very nature seemed now to have undergone a
change. I began to dislike society, and considered the unfortunate
situation I had fallen into with horror; because I fancied Lord
Ponsonby would despise me. I often reflected whether there might yet be
some mighty virtue in my power, some sacrifice of self, some exertion of
energy, by which I might, one day, deserve to be respected, or to have
my memory respected by Lord Ponsonby after I was dead.
The fact is, I really now lived but in his sight, and I only met him
once or twice in a week, to see him pass me without notice, At last I
began to believe he really did see me in the park with pleasure, when by
any accident late in the evening, I happened to be alone and the park
empty. Once he rode behind me to my very door, and passed it, without
seeming to look at me: the dread of being by him accused of boldness
ever prevented my observation.
This day, on entering my house, I mounted hastily up into my garret,
and got upon the leads, there to watch if Lord Ponsonby turned back, or
whether he had merely followed me by accident on his way somewhere else.
He rode on almost as far as I could see, and then turned back again, and
galloped hastily by my door as though afraid of being observed by me.
"Suppose he were to love me!" thought I, and the idea caused my heart
to beat wildly. I would not dwell upon it. It was ridiculous. It would
only expose me to after-disappointment. What was I, that Lord Ponsonby
should think about me? What could I ever be to him? Still there was no
reason which I could discover, why I might not love Lord Ponsonby. I
was made for love, and I looked for no return. I should have liked him
to have been assured that for the rest of his life mine was devoted to
him. In short, though I scarcely ventured to admit it, hope did begin
to predominate. I was young, and my wishes had hitherto rarely been
suppressed by disappointment.
My reflections were interrupted by my servant, who brought me a letter
from George Brummell, full of nonsensical vows and professions. "When,"
he wrote, "beautiful Harriette, will you admit me into your house?
Why so obstinately refuse my visits? Tell me, I do entreat you, when
I may but throw myself at your feet without fear of derision from a
public homage on the pavement, or dislocation from the passing hackney
coaches?" The rest I have forgotten.
Wellington called on me the next morning before I had finished my
breakfast. I tried him on every subject I could muster. On all, he was
most impenetrably taciturn. At last he started an original idea of his
own; actual copyright, as Stockdale would call it.
"I wonder you do not get married, Harriette!"
(By-the-bye, ignorant people are always wondering.)
"Why so?"
Wellington, however, gives no reason for anything unconnected with
fighting, at least since the Convention of Cintra, and he therefore
again became silent. Another burst of attic sentiment blazed forth.
"I was thinking of you last night, after I got into bed," resumed
Wellington.
"How very polite to the duchess," I observed. "Apropos to marriage,
duke, how do you like it?"
Wellington, who seems to make a point of never answering one, continued,
"I was thinking--I was thinking that you will get into some scrape, when
I go to Spain."
"Nothing so serious as marriage neither, I hope!"
"I must come again to-morrow, to give you a little advice," continued
Wellington.
"Oh, let us have it all out now, and have done with it."
"I cannot," said Wellington, putting on his gloves, and taking a hasty
leave of me.
"I am glad he is off," thought I, "for this is indeed very uphill work.
This is worse than Lord Craven."
As soon as he was gone, I hastened to Curzon Street. The window-shutters
of Lord Ponsonby's house were all closed. How disappointed and
low-spirited I felt at the idea that his lordship had left town!
Suspense was insufferable; so I ventured to send my servant to inquire
when the family were expected in London.
"In about a month," was the answer. "I must forget this man," thought
I, "it is far too great a bore": and yet I felt that to forget him was
impossible.
Things went on in the same way for a week or two. Amy had closed with
Mr. Sydenham's proposal, and changed her name to that of Mrs. Sydenham.
She called on Fanny one morning, when her drawing-room was half full of
beaux.
"Beautiful Amy, how do you do?" said Nugent, with that eternal smile of
his!--it is so vulgar to be always looking joyful, and full of glee, I
cannot think what he can mean by it.
"Oh," said Amy, withdrawing her hand, "I must never flirt, nor have any
beaux again, I must now lead a pure, virtuous, chaste, and proper life."
"Who has laid such an appalling embargo on you?" I asked.
"Why, do you not know that Sydenham and I are become man and wife? and
that I have changed my name and my home for his?"
After wishing Mrs. Sydenham joy I took my leave. On reaching home I
found young Freeling in my drawing-room, waiting to pay his respects to
me.
I began to think I had scarcely done this young man justice, he appeared
so very humble, quiet and amiable. He blushed exceedingly when I
addressed him, but--never mind the vanity--it proceeded more from a
sort of respectful growing passion towards me, than, as I had at first
imagined, from _mauvaise honte._
Freeling was not fashionable, as I have said before; but I must add that
I believe even his enemy could say nothing worse of him.
"I will not deceive you," said I to him one day, seeing he was inclined
to follow the thing up steadily, under the impression perhaps that
faint heart never won fair lady. "Some women would make use of your
attentions, your money, and your private boxes, as long as possible;
but I will say this of myself, I know there is not much to be said in
my favour, I never do what I feel to be ungenerous or wrong. I shall
receive you with pleasure as a friend at any time; but if you were to
sit down and sigh for a twelvemonth, you would never get any further.
No speeches, now! You are an interesting young man whom thousands of
amiable women would like, and life is short. _L'amour ne se commande
pas_, perhaps you are going to tell me; and my answer is, that I am sure
it cannot long survive hope, and for you indeed there is none."
Freeling blushed and looked melancholy and undecided.
"Shake hands and forgive me," said I, "_Allons. Un peu de philosophie,
mon ami. Que vaut la belle, qui détourne la bouche?_ How ridiculous a
fine, tall, well-looking young man like you will appear, sitting under
one of the willow-trees, in the Green Park!"
Freeling smiled.
"There now, I see it is over already," I continued, and changed the
subject, which Freeling had the good sense and good taste never to
renew; and what is more, the good heart to take an opportunity of doing
me a very essential service, some months afterwards, when I believed he
had forgotten me altogether.
"And pray, madam," the reader may ask, "how came you to be such a
monster, as to call this kind, generous-hearted man a bore, and a
general postman, some time ago?"
I do not know I am sure; I really am very sorry for it now; but then
the book never will be finished, if I am to stop to make corrections
and alterations; moreover, Stockdale has run away with that part of my
manuscript: so to proceed----
Some short time after this mighty elopement, the Duke of Wellington,
who, I presume, had discovered the tough qualities of his heart, which
contributed to obtain him such renown in the field of battle, possessed
no more merit for home service or ladies' uses than did his good
digestion, betook himself again to the wars. He called to take a hasty
leave of me a few hours before his departure.
"I am off for Spain directly," said Wellington.
I know not how it was but I grew melancholy. Wellington had relieved
me from many duns, which else had given me vast uneasiness. I saw him
there, perhaps for the last time in my life. Ponsonby was nothing to me,
and out of town; in fact, I had been in bad spirits all the morning,
and strange, but very true, and he remembers it still, when I was about
to say, "God bless you, Wellington!" I burst into tears. They appeared
to afford rather an unusual unction to his soul, and his astonishment
seemed to me not quite unmixed with gratitude.
"If you change your home," said Wellington, kissing my cheek, "let me
find your address at Thomas's Hotel, as soon as I come to England; and,
if you want anything in the meantime, write to Spain; and do not cry;
and take care of yourself: and do not cut me when I come back."
"Do you hear?" said Wellington; first wiping away some of my tears with
my handkerchief; and then, kissing my eyes, he said, "God bless you!"
and hurried away.
Argyle continued to correspond with me; but, if one might judge from
the altered style of his letters, Wellington had made a breach in
his grace's late romantic sentiments in my favour. Breach-making was
Wellington's trade, you know; and little as men of Argyle's nation might
be expected to care about breeches, yet the idea of Wellington often
made him sigh; and sometimes he whistled, which, with Argyle, was just
the same thing.
I forgot to mention, that, on the day after I met a certain great man
at Julia's house, my servant informed me a gentleman in the parlour
desired to speak to me.
"Why do not you bring his name?" said I.
"The gentleman says it does not signify," was my footman's answer.
"Go, and tell him that I think it does signify; and that I will not
receive people who are ashamed either of me or themselves."
The man hesitated.
"Stay," said I, "I will put it down for you," and I wrote what I had
said on a bit of paper.
My servant brought me back the paper, on the blank side of which was
written, with a pencil, one word.
I sent it down again, with these words written underneath the word, on
purpose to put him in a passion, "Don't know anybody in that shire."
The servant returned once more, with one of his lordship's printed
cards, assuring me the gentleman in the parlour was walking about in a
great passion.
I desired him to be shown upstairs; and, when he entered, I stood up, as
though waiting to hear why he intruded on me.
"I believe, madam," said his lordship, "some apology is due to you from
me."
"Are you going to tell me that you were tipsy, when you last did me the
favour to mistake my house for an inn, or something worse?"
"No! certainly not," answered the peer.
"Were you quite sober?"
"Perfectly."
"Then your late conduct admits of no apology, and you could offer none
which would not humble and greatly wound my pride, to avoid which I must
take the liberty of wishing you a good morning."
I then rang my bell and left him.
More than a month had now elapsed since Lord Ponsonby left London, and
I perceived no signs of his return. Yet I never forgot him, although
half the fine young men in town were trying to please me. Amy continued
to give her parties, but soberly; that is to say, Sydenham insisted on
having his house quiet before three in the morning. One evening, when
Fanny and Julia dined with me, I got up from my table to open my window,
and I saw Lord Ponsonby, who was slowly riding by my house, with his
face turned towards my window. This time there could be no doubt as to
his blushing. My happiness was now of a nature too pure to be trifled
with, and I know I could not endure to have it intruded on by any
commonplace remarks. I kept his appearance therefore a profound secret;
although I found it the most difficult thing possible to talk on any
other subject, I thought these women never would have left me. They took
their leave however at last; but not till near twelve o'clock.
I could not sleep a wink all night! At nine the next morning I rang my
bell, being quite worn out with attempting it. My maid entered my room
with a letter, which had just arrived by the twopenny post. It was as
follows;
"I have long been very desirous to make your acquaintance:
will you let me? A friend of mine has told me something about you;
but I am afraid you were then only laughing at me; _et il se peut,
qu'un homme passé, ne soit bon que pour cela!_ I hope, at all
events, that you will write me one line, to say you forgive me, and
direct it to my house in town.
"P."
I will not attempt to describe all I felt on the receipt of this first
epistle from Lord Ponsonby. I am now astonished at that infatuation,
which could render a girl like me possessed certainly of a very feeling,
affectionate heart, thus thoughtless and careless of the fate of
another: and that other a young, innocent and lovely wife! Had anybody
reminded me that I was now about to inflict perhaps the deepest wound in
the breast of an innocent wife, I hope and believe I should have stopped
there; and then what pain and bitter anguish I had been spared; but I
declare to my reader that Lady Fanny Ponsonby never once entered my head.
I had seen little or nothing of the world. I never possessed a really
wise friend, to set me right, advise or admonish me. My mother had ever
seemed happiest in my father's absence, nor did she vex or trouble
herself to watch his steps; and I did not know, or at all events I did
not think, my seeking Lord Ponsonby's acquaintance would be likely to
injure any one of my fellow creatures; or I am sure such a reflection
must have embittered that pure state of happiness I now enjoyed.
This was my answer to Lord Ponsonby's letter:
"For the last five months I have scarcely lived but in your
sight, and everything I have done or wished, or hoped or thought
about, has had a reference to you and your happiness. Now tell me
what you wish.
"HARRIETTE."
Reply:
"I fancy, though we never met, that you and I are in fact
acquainted, and understand each other perfectly. If I do not affect
to disbelieve you, you will not say I am vain; and when I tell you
that we cannot meet immediately, owing to a very severe domestic
calamity, you will not say I am cold. In the meantime will you
write to me? The little watch I have got for you, I am not quite
satisfied with. I have seen one in better taste, and flatter. But
my poor father is dying and counts the minutes of my absence, or I
could have found one to please you. However, you will keep this for
my sake. I will leave it myself at your house this evening. I can
scarcely describe to you how exhausted I am; for I have passed the
whole of the three last nights by the bedside of my sick father,
without rest. I know he will have your prayers. At midnight, let
us pray for him, together. He has been suffering more than five
months. Adieu, dear Harriette."
Lord Ponsonby's solitary rides with his dog, his paleness, and that
melancholy expression of countenance, which at once interested me so
deeply, were now accounted for. During three weeks more we corresponded
daily. His father continued to exist, and that was all. I learned from
his lordship's letters that, on the night we saw him for a few moments
at the opera, his father was pronounced out of danger, and country-air
was recommended to him, which, having produced no favourable change,
nothing now could save him. My happiness, while that correspondence
went on, was the purest, the most exalted, and the least allied to
sensuality, of any I ever experienced in my life. Ponsonby, I conceived,
was now mine, by right mine, by that firm courage which made me feel
ready to endure any imaginable evil for his sake. I was morally certain
that nothing in existence could love Lord Ponsonby, or could feel the
might and majesty of his peculiarly intellectual beauty as I did.
"My beloved," so he wrote to me at last, "my spirits and health fail me;
they are worn out and exhausted, with this close confinement. My poor
father no longer suffers, or is scarcely sensible. My brother George
will take my place by his bedside. Let us meet this evening, and you
will console me. I shall go to you at nine."
Lord Ponsonby was then coming to me at last! I began to fear the
expression of his eyes, so penetrating, so very bright. I began to think
myself under the influence of a dream, and that he was not coming; then
I feared sudden death would deprive me of him. I heard the knock, and
his footsteps on the stairs; and then that most godlike head uncovered,
that countenance, so pale, so still, and so expressive, the mouth of
such perfect loveliness; the fine clear, transparent, dark skin. I
looked earnestly in his face, I watched for that characteristic blush
which made me fancy his body thought, to be certain of my own happiness!
and then my overflowing heart was relieved by a flood of tears.
"My dear, dear, little Harriette," said Ponsonby, drawing me towards
him, and passing his arm softly round my waist, "let us be happy now
we are met." My smile must have been expressive of the most heartfelt
felicity; yet our happiness was of that tranquil nature which is nearer
allied to melancholy than to mirth. We conversed together all night,
with my head resting on his shoulder. An age could not have made us
better acquainted! Ponsonby's health and spirits were evidently quite
exhausted by anxiety and want of rest. Neither of us desired anything,
while thus engaged in conversation. Yes, perhaps, I did, as my eyes were
fixed, for hours, on his beautiful and magnificent countenance, feel my
own lips almost tremble, as I thought they would be pressed to his, and
Ponsonby seemed to understand and feel my wishes, for he said, in answer
to nothing but the expression of my eyes--
"No, not to night! I could not bear your kiss to night. We will dream
about it till to-morrow."
Ponsonby assured me, in the course of our _tête-à-tête_, that the first
time he had seen me, was one day when I lived at Somers-town two years
before. For three or four days after that, he could think of nothing
else. He met me with Argyle again, and wished to forget me; but, added
he, "I, being the shyest poor wretch in the world, have ever held
anything like notoriety in the greatest dread. I abhor it! therefore,
when you came out at the opera, and I heard all the fine young men
talking about you, it was not so difficult to forget you; and yet,
though you did not see me, I was always looking at you, and trying to
hear some one talk about you. When we met latterly in the Park, there
was something so natural and unaffected, and wild, about your manner,
that I began to forget your notoriety."
Ponsonby then told me all about the poor old woman to whom I had given
half a crown in the Park; but what he said on that head was far too
flattering for me to repeat. It was past five in the morning when we
separated.
"You are so ill and fatigued," said I, "dear Ponsonby, that I will not
let you come to me to-morrow night."
"Oh, but I must!" answered Ponsonby.
"Indeed you must rest."
"Impossible!" he replied.
We made no professions of love to each other--not one; for we were as
certain, as of our existence, that we were mutually adored; and yet we
passed the night together, and parted, without a kiss, to meet early the
following evening.