APPEARANCE IS AGAINST THEM, IN A SERIES OF LETTERS, IN THREE VOLUMES, BY THE AUTHOR OF EMILY HERBERT, OR PERFIDY PUNISHED.
VOL I.
LONDON:
Printed for THOMAS JONES, at his Circulating Library,
Bridge-Street, Westminster.
M. DCC. LXXXVI.
(Just Published)
EMILY HERBERT, OR PERFIDY PUNISHED.
THREE VOLS. PRICE
s. 6d.
APPEARANCE IS AGAINST THEM.
LETTER the First.
Miss ROCHLEY, TO Miss LENOX.
Warwick.
WHY all this distress my kind Harriot, why so much anxiety on your Isabella's account? I hoped my last would have convinced you I am by no means so unhappy, as your fears would persuade you; no doubt we have suffered,
severely suffered:
the unexpected change in our situation is certainly a very mortifying circumstance; but, remember my dear, we are not the first, would to heaven we might be the last, who have been ruined by that destructive vice; 'twas my poor father's only foible; do not then let us be too severe on his memory; nor are we Harriot left quite destitute as you suppose, far from it: my Orlando's commission is alone sufficient to maintain him as a gentleman, had he no more, but he has more—after paying all my father's debts, and sorry,
sorry,
am I to say, they were mostly what is falsely called debts of honor; we find a reversion of near two thousand pounds. What is this, you will perhaps ask, when compared to the noble estate he has lost at the gaming table?—nothing—yet Harriot, how many, no less worthy than ourselves are there at this moment, who would look upon even our present situation as enviable; 'tis by reflections of this nature I endeavour to reconcile myself to my fate, and, thank heaven,
I am
reconciled to it.—O spare then, my dear Harriot
yours
on the memory of my unfortunate father. I know they are the effects of your tender affection to me; but they hurt my feelings, I can pity, I can lament his situation; this I can allow
you
to do; but, indeed you must spare your censures on a conduct, which, though faulty, a daughter ought not to condemn: alas, he suffered most severely—his agony—his remorse in his last moments would have pierced the most flinty heart.—Orlando's behaviour—but no words can do it justice—'twas great—'twas noble—not a murmur—not even a sigh escaped him for his
own
fate, all his feelings were for the sufferings of a father whose failings he pitied, and wished to forget—
he,
Harriot, has indeed, a degree of manly fortitude, to which your poor Isabella has no pretensions: my resignation proceeds rather from an indifference for the superfluities of life, from a happy flow of spirits, which has ever led me to look on the bright side of the picture, and let me add, which should indeed have been first mentioned, a firm persuasion, that, the Almighty never wholly forsakes the virtuous, nor lays heavier burdens on any of his creatures, than they are able to bear. What have I then to fear?—poverty—be it so, far be it from me to believe all who are destitute of riches are miserable—nor can I be deemed absolutely poor, having such a brother as my Orlando—he may—nay, he
must
rise in his profession, if merit can entitle him to it; and though that does not always follow, yet a very superior degree of it, is seldom wholly overlooked, and such is his—have I not a kind affectionate friend too in my Harriot, who, I am positively certain will love me more truly now, if possible, than in my days of prosperity?—adversity is justly said to be the test of friendship; I am under no apprehensions for the loss of yours—those who may now look cool upon me, I have pride enough to despise, and thus we are quits—it will shew me their real value, and that, let me tell you, is gaining no inconsiderable knowledge.—Are you convinced my dear Harriot, that I am not so much to be pitied as you have hitherto kindly feared? believe me, happiness is an imaginary blessing, at least, 'tis in the mind we must seek for it, not in those outward trappings, which wealth bestows, and can
only
bestow. I am very much persuaded, I shall find myself as thoroughly satisfied and content, nay, as vain of my charms too, in a neat linen or muslin gown, as ever I was when adorned with more costly attire; indeed, I have somewhere read, that beauty when unadorned, is adorned the most—'tis a doctrine I am now determined to adopt, and, who knows, what may yet happen; if that maxim may be depended on, my days of conquest are yet to begin, that is to say, I am to be more capable of it than ever.—I feared, you see, you should fancy I had lived to nearly my nineteenth year, without having done any execution, and, humbled as I am, felt my pride alarmed at such an idea—thank heaven, however, I am setting out in my new plan of life, with my heart perfectly at ease—no small consolation that, let me tell you—not so, my darling Orlando; and that pains it indeed, more than any other wound it could have received—he has
now,
I fear, a hopeless passion to struggle with, beside all his other misfortunes—you are no stranger to his atachment to the lovely Caroline, nor her wretch of a brother's rooted aversion to mine—an aversion, founded on his superiority; they were fellow collegians—he there conceived that envy for his superior talents; and the universal esteem he met with from every creature, (himself excepted,) and by some other trifling circumstances which has since occurred, of which you have seen many proofs; it has, from that period, been his constant endeavour to do him every injury in his power, though, till now, he has met with few or no opportunities—and, there is nothing more certain, I firmly believe, than that.
Forgiveness to the injured does belong,
They never pardon, who have done the wrong.
Now,
I say, he has it amply in his power, to mortify the amiable object of his aversion, since Caroline is, till of age, wholly in his power, then indeed she may chuse for herself; and I have every reason to believe her choice is already made, but till then, she cannot marry without the wretch's consent; this however, is not the worst; time would of course remove this obstacle, but the scene is changed—my Orlando's sentiments are of a nature so delicate, that I am fully persuaded he will, or rather has, from the moment, he knew he had no longer a fortune to offer, worthy her accceptance, given up every hope of possessing the mistress of his tenderest affections. Sir John will therefore be again disappointed, in his hopes of mortifying him, for never will he put it in any woman's power, to suspect interest could have any influence over him. The lovely Caroline, I well know, would rejoice in thus having it in her power, to restore the man of her heart, to that affluence from which he has so unhappily fallen, indeed, I can hardly form an idea of a greater gratification than that must be to a noble mind, except being able, like Orlando, thus to sacrifice all his prospects of felicity to his ideas of honor—'tis the pangs, which I am sensible, at this moment, wrings his generous heart, that pains mine most, in this our fallen state—all other ills I can look forward to with tolerable fortitude; but where my brother's peace of mind is concerned, I feel most severely; 'tis only while reflections on this subject occur, that my heroism forsakes me; 'tis then, I mourn our loss, and the little probability there is of his ever being so happy as he justly deserves to be, or as my affectionate heart could wish—for, alas, we may truly be stiled orphans. Since, I know not one relation we have in the world, on whom we have any possible claim: my poor father, had no brothers—my amiable and ever to be lamented mother had but one, and he died when Orlando and I were infants, at least we have every reason to believe so, as we have never heard of him since.—On Providence, Harriot we must place our trust—but had we hundreds of relations, are there any on whom we could, or ought with so much confidence to rely? surely there are not, for they, though possessed of millions, might behold our wants with an eye of indifference; all our hopes of sharing their wealth might possibly be disappointed, for 'tis not those who possess most, who are always readiest to bestow—but, in putting our trust in Providence, we not only do our duty, but cannot fail in being rewarded, either in this world or a better—yet, alas, my dear Harriot, this, I fear, is in general, a last resource—certain it is, your poor Isabella has no other; I fear, if I had, you might not have found me capable of making so many pious reflections.—I dare not too minutely enter into the scrutiny, conscious, that 'tis much easier to preach than practice—of this, however, I am absolutely certain, that the sentiments I have expressed, are such, as I ought most firmly to believe, and though my faith may be weak, I trust it will never wholly fail—do not be shocked my dear Harriot, when I inform you where to address your next letter, forget, as I endeavour to do, the elegant mansion, in which I formerly enjoyed the pleasure of your correspondence, reflect only, that your pleasing epistles will now be doubly dear to me, robbed as I am, of so many other sources of satisfaction,—do not suffer a tear to drop on it in remembrance of the past, 'tis fruitless, a thousand things may yet happen to cheer my present prospects. I do not despair; and why, my good girl, should you: Let me find in your next your usual vivacity,
that
will help to restore mine, indeed, for my Orlando's sake, I will do my utmost, not only to
appear,
but really to
be
chearful; not for worlds, would I give him one moments uneasiness, nay, in this, and only this case, would I deceive him; and, if possible, persuade him, I am more resigned, than 'tis in nature to be—you have not, I am sure, forgot our worthy teacher at Mrs. Mason's; she was ever extremely partial, both to you and your Isabella; our governess, was of a more haughty, more forbidding cast; of course, Mrs. Bellmour was our favorite—to what can all this possibly tend, cries, my Harriot; what has Mrs. Bellmour to do with the address you was talking of?—a great deal my dear—she has lately left our school, and has now a house in London, where she has half a dozen young women constantly employed in embroidery, and other elegant works; she has a very numerous acquaintance amongst people of fashion, and I hear, has great business in that line; her house is an excecding good one, in an airy situation—no shop—pray let that console you—with her I have determined to reside for a time— my pride forbad my continuing in the country; I dreaded the pity of my former acquaintance, and trust I shall never require it; as it is one of the least pleasing of all consolations, and for that reason, I fear, given so freely.—In town, I can live as retired as I please, and what is still better, enjoy my Orlando's society daily—he is now my only protector; could I then do better than take up my residence near him.—Mrs. Belmour is a woman of family, of a fine understanding, well bred, and accomplished; our situations are in some degree similar—true there is this difference; she, though as I said, of a good family, never had hopes of a fortune: Her father was a younger brother—married against the consent of his friends; was never pardoned, and died when she was an infant; she was of course brought up without higher views than she has attained to; perhaps, her father's misfortunes might deter her from entering into the state of matrimony; be that as it will, she never did, though she has certainly been a fine woman in her day—with her, I doubt not I shall find myself very commodiously situated; my faithful Fanny, begged to continue with me, indeed, I had no thoughts of parting from her; but, when she saw all the other servants dismissed, she feared it was to be her fate also; she is a good creature, and, I believe sincerely attached to me, indeed, having lived in our family, from a girl I can hardly doubt it—nor is this desire a small proof of it.—My dear Orlando wished me much, also to retain my own man—but this I at once declared I would not consent to—could I possibly think of putting him to an expence for a gratification I could so easily dispence with—no, Harriot—far, far, rather would
I
make shift with the bare necessaries of life, than encroach on his generosity—'tis for his dear sake too, I chuse to live retired; in London, I am an absolute stranger; I mean to continue so.—Reading, music, drawing, and needle work, with sometimes his loved company, will abundantly amuse me; thank heaven, my mind is not such a blank as that I should, like too many others of my sex, be compelled to
kill
time, instead of using it to rational purposes: Lord help those insignificant souls, who find every moment of it heavy, when not engaged in dissipation—much indeed are they to be pitied, and many,
many
such there are, in this small town.—'tis now I think full time to bid you adieu; when I am settled in my new habitation, you shall hear from me again—in the mean time, be under no apprehensions for me. I have made up my mind. All will do mighty well. Continue to love me, and believe me,
Ever your affectionate, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Second.
Same to the Same.
London.
HERE I am, my dearest Harriot, and I assure you, very comfortably settled—comfortably, you cry, shocked at the homely phrase—but why shocked?—you have been so long accustomed to think of your Isabella, as enjoying every elegance, every luxury of life, that the idea of being reduced to the mere comfortable, it appears, I suppose, a mighty
uncomfortable
expression—now, I, on the contrary, by casting my eyes around me, and viewing the thousands who every moment pass my windows, visibly destitute of
even that
blessing, think 'tis no small mercy, considering, that another unlucky cast of the dice, might have put me on a level with the most wretched—'tis by reflecting in this manner, my dear Harriot, one finds consolation; in fact, I have lost nothing essentially necessary to happiness, were it not a truth, how very
very
few, in this world have any pretensions to it—few I mean, in comparison of those, who are even in a far worse situation than I am at this moment; have I not a kind affectionate brother, a friend, no less tenderly attached to me?—in short, I am determined to bid defiance to adversity; I will bear it, not only with resignation, but, if possible, cheerfully, which I am positively certain, will strip it of half its horrors; no more condolence then, no more fruitless repining, let us remember, this misfortune was brought upon us by a
father,
a kind, an indulgent, though an imprudent one; be his faults and failings forgot, and, may I ever reflect with gratitude, on the thousand benefits we have received from him—a good education, well informed understanding, sentiments we need not blush to acknowledge; these, Harriot, we owe to his paternal care, but for those instructions, I might not have been able, as thank Heaven, I now can, to look back without a sigh, to those ample possessions, once ours—now in the possession of others, perhaps, less deserving—why wonder at the fall of a private family—'tis a fate from which even the greatest empires are not exempt—but, let me farther convince my kind Harriot, I am not an object of pity, by giving her a more minute account of my situation; I found Mrs. Bellmour's house infinitely more
elegant,
yes,
elegant,
than I had any idea of; I have three apartments, which we will call my drawing room, dressing room, and bed chamber, more than that number I did not aspire to, in my father's house, 'tis true, my second is not quite so spacious as my former one there, but for that very reason, is now preferable, as it is more suitable to my circumstances—the furniture is all chintz—my dear Orlando, has supplied me with a few well chosen books; I have my harpsichord, my materials for drawing; and, as for all sorts of elegant works, have only to step down to Mrs. Bellmour, and there I may at all times, see and copy the greatest variety—she is delighted with the honor I have done her, in making choice of her house, and pays me as much respect, as if she were a stranger to my misfortunes; she has no other lodgers, though she has another set of apartments, as good as mine, which she can spare, but has made a point of taking no person, who is not particulaly recommended, nor is she very anxious about it, as she is in a fair way to make a fortune in a few years, by her business— now, tell me, honestly, have I not great reason to bless Heaven, that I still enjoy so many comforts—surely, I have—you'll perhaps, tell me, I am excluded from all society, or at least, from such as I have hitherto been accustomed to—'tis very true, and society is undoubtedly, the first satisfaction in life—but, though I had a numerous acquaintance, it by no means follows, that in their company, I found what
I call
society—'tis, in my opinion, a thing no longer understood, 'tis still like friendship, much talked of, but where do we find it—not at public places, not at card parties, society, according to my ideas, consists in rational conversation, with sensible well informed people—where are they to be met with? that there are many such, I make no doubt, but, what avails it—a man, or woman, of superior understanding, makes no better figure—nay, I am apt to think, a worse figure at a public place, or, card assembly, than one who can only talk of the weather—the fashions, the opera, or the last new play—and, where does one meet any soul, but at places of this nature? not in London; so my loss, you see, is not great in that article—do you, Harriot, in your conscience, think they understand the matter much better in the country—I do not—during the few months people of fashion spend there, do they not to the utmost of their power, live exactly as they do in town—where then is society to be found—I say, 'tis wholly abolished, and in its stead, we have only an eternal round of insipid dissipation, in which, as I said above, the fool, makes just as good a figure as the man of sense—I never passed a winter in town, except one—and upon my honor, I never was so tired of any six months, since I was born, yet, I was then in the first company, nay, admired too, as a beauty, that circumstance one would think, might have kept one awake, but I declare to you, I have found on many occasions, more use for my fan to conceal a yawn, than for any other purpose; how often have I been, one of a large circle of belles and beaux, for hours together, without hearing a single sentence uttered worth attending to; yet all affect amazing vivacity, and a laugh is frequently heard, when not a soul amongst them, if asked, what gave rise to it, could possibly tell—'tis, as somebody very justly observed, when talking on this very subject—
all laugh, and no joke
—this is society—and this I am likely to be debarred of, if I have not it in my power, to mix as formerly, with the beau monde—am I to be pitied—not one bit—besides, my new situation has the charm of novelty to reccommend it, and that, let me tell you, is no small matter—did ever mortal, you cry, hear any one so eloquent in praise of adversity—perhaps not—but 'tis my way, Harriot, to make the best I can of a bad bargain—and, after all, should I be one jot the happier, had I given myself up a prey to despair—had I, instead of thus endeavouring to forget the past, tormented both you and myself, with unavailing lamentation—I doubt the fact, my dear—my Orlando too, who makes it my study to keep up my spirits—shall I not do all in my power to assist him in his kind purpose; I should little merit his affectionate attention, if I did not—here comes the dear creature, I hear his voice below—farewell—let me hear from you soon, and believe me,
Ever your, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Third.
Same to the Same.
London.
WHAT an angel is Caroline, my dear Harriot—Oh! she has proved herself the most generous, the most exalted of women—you may remember, that I broke off abruptly hearing my Orlando's voice, enquiring for me—read that, my Isabella, cried he, giving me a letter, and confess that the charming Caroline is, as I ever believed her, a noble minded creature—I have his permission to send you the following copy of it, that you may yourself, judge whether she does not justly merit the encomiums, I have given her
To COLONEL ROCHLEY.
WERE I not thoroughly acquainted with the sentiments of the amiable Colonel Rochley, I might, perhaps, have scrupled to give him this proof of my partiality, nor am I ignorant, that there are many of my own sex, and perhaps, of yours, who would condemn me for it, but I have examined my heart, it acquits me, and I am in this instance, determined to rest satisfied with its decision—to the change in your situation, I give not a thought on my own account, yourself, not your fortune was ever the object of my attachment—I know your worth, and I think, Orlando, I know also, that you have a tolerable opinion of mine, but, I also know the delicacy of your sentiments—these, if I do not mistake your character, will lead you to fancy it incumbnet on you, to give up all thoughts of the poor Caroline, because, truly, 'tis no longer in your power, to produce a rent, roll equal to hers—this may, for ought, I know, be deemed mighty noble, mighty generous, and all that—but, it does not, my good friend, accord with my ideas, nor, do I mean to let you so easily off, you have—at least you told me so a thousand times—I say, you have freely and voluntarily given me your heart; I have long looked upon it as my property—with your heart, I made not a doubt, that I should, in due time, be able to prevail on you, to give me also your hand; nay, so certain was I of it, that I had privately made a vow, never to bestow mine on any other of your sex; a pretty scrape then, I am likely to be brought into, should you make a point of playing the hero, and for the before mentioned ridiculous reasons, give me up—I know my very
amiable
and
affectionate
wretch of a brother, would see us both perish, rather than consent to our union—but, if you will condescend to wait—let me see, how long—O, just four months, and three weeks; I shall then, be my own mistress, and, as I am, very unwilling to break my vow, and still,
more unwilling
to seek out for a new lover; I am, when that happy period arrives, determined to sue you for damages, should you presume to break yours—and, I promise you, I shall claim a pretty considerable sum, nor will it, I think, be denied me; the loss of my heart, let me tell you, is no joke—I accuse you of the theft; deny it if you can—prepare then, either your defence—or, what will give me infinitely more satisfaction, agree to compromise the affair, by keeping it, and permitting me to retain yours in return, on this condition, I here, make a second vow, that on the day I shall become of age, I will offer you my lilly hand in holy matrimony; think of what has been said, and don't play the simpleton—you must have a very short memory, if it is necessary for me to inform you, that,
I am, Most truly, and affectionately, your CAROLINE WESTBURY▪
I trust it will, And am, ever your's, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
P. S.
Do not fancy I have formed the above resolution, without mature reflection—no—I am too wise, too prudent for that, believe me—I have weighed the matter, as thus—in one scale, I put myself▪ and my twenty thousand pounds—in the other, your worship, your colonel's commission, with all your accomplishments of mind, and person—when, behold, my Ladyship's scale instantly kicked the beam, nay, so very unequal were they, that I am positively certain, could I have thrown fifty thousand more into it, there it would have stuck—the duce is in it then, if I shall not have the best bargain—adieu.—
You have now, I presume, read the delightful girls letter—what do you think of her, my dear Harriot—is she not a spirited, charming creature?—there are those, she says, who might possibly condemn her—you, I trust, are not of the stupid number; for my part, I adore her for her ingenuous candour—she knows, Orlando's whole happiness centers in her—she knows his worth—who then, but the most ridiculously prudish, shall presume to say, she has not acted like an
angel
—yes, an angel, I repeat, for, alas, I fear 'tis not like the generality of our sex—well, my dear Orlando, cryed I, when I had read her epistle—what says your heart, to this proof of your Caroline's
folly?
—folly, Isabella—certainly replied I—must she not be a very weak creature, thus, to persist in loving you, merely for those good qualities, which no reverse of fortune can rob you of—what are those, compared to an estate of two thousand a year?—nothing indeed, I believe, said he, in the estimation of too many of your sex, Isabella, but my engaging Caroline has a mind—to play the fool, cryed I, interrupting him, thats all—but seriously, continued I, do not now, my dear brother, carry your sentiments of honor or generosity, too far—there are obstacles enough to your felicity already; let it be your business to remove, not by a false delicacy, to add to them; remember, the lively affectionate Carolines happiness is at stake, as well as yours—has she not freely confessed it?—she has, cryed he in raptures, and I am the happiest of mortals; yes, Isabella, I will look forward with hope—hope, replied I, nay, with certainty—only, beware of that wretch, her brother, I know no villainy of which he is not capable, suffer him to believe you have
now
given up all thoughts of his sister; be cautious how you conduct yourself; beware, that none of your letters fall into his hands; I have no fears, on your account, my dear Orlando, 'tis for your Carolines safety I tremble, wholly in his power, as she is at present, who can say, what his hatred to to you, and his sordid avarice may prompt him to?—go, my beloved brother, go, and answer the charming girl's letter, as it deserves, but, as I said before, take care that 'tis safely conveyed to her—he left me, the happiest of beings—yet, a thousand delicate scruples damped his joy, but I think, conscious as he is, that her felicity, as I told him, depends upon him, he will conquer them—thus my dear friend, all my sorrows are at an end—my Orlando will yet be happy—can I then fail to be compleatly so?—impossible—no more repining, no more reflections then on the past, who can say, what a day can bring forth? this has been a happy one, to morrow may be no less so—
LETTER the Fourth.
Miss LENOX, TO Miss ROCHLEY.
Northampton.
YOU are persuaded, you say, in one of your letters, I shall love you with more sincerity now, in your adversity, than ever I did in your days of prosperity—why, really my dear Isabella, the thing is mighty easily accounted for, though, 'tis not exactly according to the modern ideas of friendship; have I not, by this change in your situation, had an opportunity to discover a thousand good qualities in you, which, but for
that,
neither you nor I might ever have suspected you possessed?—how could it ever have entered my head, that Isabella Rochly, born and bred in affluence, accustomed from her infancy, to all the luxuries, all the gratifications wealth could bestow, should, when unexpectedly robbed of them all, continue the same lively, chearful creature she ever was—who, I say▪ could have believed it?—well, may you say, you bid defiance to poverty—with a mind, as yours evidently is formed, what, as you say, have you to fear?—all this is great—is noble, my dear Isabella, yet, though convinced your sentiments are right,
rational,
and all that—I cannot help feeling—aye, and fearing too—but you will tell me, I am a Job's comforter—'tis very true—the fact is, had you, as every other mortal in your case, would have done, filled your letters with sighs and tears with ahs!—and ohs! as long as my arm—I should have taken
he other side of the question, and have endeavoured to console you, by every means in my power—but your astonishing resignation—your truly
christian
philosophy, leaves me nothing to say—I can only wonder and admire—and love you most affectionately.
Having therefore, nothing more to do, let us chat as usual,
on a late event, merely, a
on an unpleasant dream—and first, for the charming Caroline—no, no, believe me, I am not one of the stupid number, who condemn her, if any such there be, which I very much doubt—at least, if they are acquainted with Orlando Rochley, I pronounce the thing impossible—one there is—him, I had forgot, but, he is a wretch, not worth naming, her brother, I mean—but, though, not worth naming—he is an object to be feared—do you know, Isabella, I am assured, he is at this moment in treaty with one of his gambling companions, who has taken it into his head, to fancy himself capable of being desperately in love
th the dear girl; Sir John, has lost a very considerable sum of money to him—I believe, at the last Newmarket races; this sum he has promised to give up, on condition he receives the h
nd of Caroline, in its stead; and also, to accept fifteen thousand, instead of the twenty, to which she is entitled, on the day she is of age—this, I am informed, and from pretty good authority, is the bargain these two worthy Baronets have struck; judge you, whether they will leave any stone unturned to accomplish their vile plot; Sir John, 'tis well known, is over head and ears in debt—Sir James Henderson, rich as a jew, and though incapable of a real attachment, spares no expence to gratify his passions—or, the whim of the moment—I tell you this, my dear Isabella, not that I have any apprehensions, farther than the trouble they may occasion—thank heaven, we live in a land of liberty; a woman cannot be forced into matrimony against her will—and of all women, Caroline Westbury, is least likely; she has more sense, more spirit, than half the fellows in England, consequently, they will make but a bungling hand of the business, but, as I said above, they may torment, and give her a great deal of trouble—you may do as you please, in regard to informing your dear brother, of what I now tell you; I think it may not be amiss, knowing ones enemies, one may the better guard against their machinations; indeed, being master of her generous heart, I think he has nothing to fear, he has only to have patience, and, as you say, all will do
mighty well
—but why, my dear Isabella, this very retired plan of yours?—I see no reason for it, why not enjoy a little
society,
I was going to say—forgetting you had proved to me, 'tis a thing no longer existing—perhaps, not according to your antiquated notions; but you in your turn forget, that all one has to do in this world of ours, is to take things as we find them; while thus indulging your
simple
plan, (the only simple one by the way, you ever formed)—the world will take it for granted, you are weeping and wailing your misfortunes unable to bear this reverse with proper resignation, take my word for it, they will never be kind enough to impute your conduct to the real motive, they will be glad to find a defect in a character hitherto deemed perfect, disappoint them, my dear Isabella, convince them, your happiness depended not on so fickle a being, as
Madam Fortune,
nor, could her ill favoured daughter,
Miss,
rob you of your felicity—give them not such a triumph, my dear girl, but, let them see, you are still the lively, chearful companion you ever were; I know you have but few acquaintance in town, but, if amongst those, there are any, whose company can afford you an hours amusement, why not enjoy it—I am not without hopes of spending a few months in London this winter; if I do, emerge you must, for that I shall spoil your philosophical plan, is most certain, so you may as well drop it at once; my love to Orlando—let me hear from you soon, and tell me whether you have obeyed my commands; remember me also to our old friend Mrs. Bellmour, and doubt not, the affection of your unalterable,
HARRIOT LENOX.
LETTER the Fifth.
Same to the Same.
Northampton.
I WRITE this in haste, be not too much alarmed, my dear Isabella—I wish I could spare you the anxiety these lines I well know must occasion, but I cannot answer it to my heart, were I to conceal, what so nearly concerns your peace—Sir John, I am informed by one, who is acquainted with all his motions, has by some base means or other, seen your brothers letter to Miss Westbury. I suspect he also knew of hers to him—be that as it will, he is outrageous, and swears he will shoot the colonel through the head, rather than she shall give herself and fortune to a
beggar;
that was his elegant phrase—but, above all, to the man he detests—'tis said, but this I cannot affirm, he set off for London yesterday—accompanyed by that wretch Henderson—did they possess one spark of honor between them, I should be less apprehensive, but they do not—they dare not—I am certain—they have not sufficient spirit to demand satisfaction, as
it is called,
like gentlemen—they are too conscious of his superiority, openly to avow their designs, his courage is too well known for that—they are mere bullies—and cowards of course—all I mean by telling you this, is, that you may caution your brother—charge him to be on his guard—I really, hardly know what it is I fear—but, such is my affection for you both, that even the shadow of danger makes me tremble; should Sir John really, be gone to town, they may chance to meet, and who can say, what may be the consequence—warn Orlando then to avoid him—I have time for no more, lest, my well meant intelligence should come too late—heaven, bless you both, prays, your affectionate,
HARRIOT LENOX.
LETTER the Sixth.
Miss WESTBURY, TO Lady BELL SYDNEY.
Westbury-Hall.
YOUR ladyship is impatient, you say, to hear how I have settled matters with my gallant colonel—why, my dear Lady Bell, had the affair been left to my management, it would have been happily settled, long ago, for I think I could, in spite of his heroics, have prevailed on the dear creature, to have taken me for better, for worse—yet, such are his obsolete notions of honor—generosity, and other
equally absurd
ideas, that I should, I believe in my conscience, have had enough to do—but I told you, nay, I sent you a copy of the epistle I wrote him, on hearing the situation his imprudent father left him in—the loss of
his
fortune, never gave me one hours concern, on
my own account,
persuaded
mine,
is abundantly sufficient to satisfy any two reasonable people, and reasonable, I have ever found him, except in this instance—here truly, his pride steps in, can he think of giving a beggar to the woman he adores?—that is, the burden of his melancholy song—however, as I was saying, I believe my eloquence might have prevailed, had I been at liberty to argue the case with him, as I wished, but behold, my good for nothing brother, has found means to stop all farther proceedings at present—and, by such means, as none but a being, like himself, actuated by the basest of all motives, could have stooped too—he naturally suspected the change, in Colonel Rochley's situation, could make none in my sentiments, my attachment, he knew, was built on a more permanent foundation—he therefore, made several attemps to discover my thoughts on the subject, but to no purpose, well did I know
his,
and therefore, chose to disappoint him—however, he was too artful for me—he bribed my maid—she knew I had received a letter from him, though I never make people in that line my confidents as too many
Misses
do—but, having a better opinion of her, than I find she deserved, made no secret of it—she knew our attachment, she knew his hand writing—and, in short, when questioned on the subject, at the same time, eyeing a purse of gold—she answered, as he wished, and promised, I presume, to get him a sight of the letter—how she contrived this, I know not, unless by a false key to my cabinet, as I think, I could not be so careless as to leave it open—be that as it will—a few days ago, while at breakfast with my
Tyrant,
he with rage, malice, and a thousand other
amiable
passions, strongly depicted on his expressive countenance, produced the said epistle, at the same time, abusing us both in a language, which wou'd have done credit to an inhabitant of Billingsgate—I bore the storm with most provoking philosophic calmness—this, he, poor soul,
could not bear
—we females, my dear Lady Bell, have a thousand times more command of our tempers, than these lords of the creation, as they style themselves—so you have really been mean spirited enough, cried he, half choaked with passion, to offer yourself to this fellow?—even, so replied I, and pray brother, what can you possibly have to say to it—it cannot surely, interfere with your happiness, you,
fond,
as you ever were of me, cannot marry me yourself, what, in the name of common sense, then is it to you who does? provided he is a gentleman, a man of worth, of character—he is neither, cried he, he is a d—nd—stop, my good friend, said I, interrupting him—no naughty words I beseech you—you know—yes, well do you know, Colonel Rochley is all I have described, but I also know, not only, that you have long entertained sentiments for him, which do no great credit to your understanding, but I know also the cause—his evident
superiority, not
his inferiority, Sir John, is the crime you cannot pardon; he has made you look rather simple, on more occasions than one, 'tis no secret, my good brother, you know it is not—I might not now, or ever, have reproached you with it, had you not thus compelled me to it, in order to justify my partiality, by proving to you, he has no other fault,
even in your eyes
—surely, he is not answerable for the misconduct of his father, more than I am, for that of my brother, his family—his—d—n—his family, cryed he—well, if you insist upon it, replied I, with a
provoking smile
I fear, I can't help it, but pray, spare the colonel—my dear Lady Bell, I actually thought he would have beat me—and, perhaps I did deserve a box on the ear—to cut this matter short, continued I, and to save all farther altercation on the subject, I now declare to you freely, and candidly; I am fully determined to give my hand to this beggar, the very day I can also present him with it, my fortune—till then, I have no such intention, nor shall you then be such a cursed fool, cried he, if I can help it, and I think I shall find ways for that—so saying, away he bounced—I soon followed, in order to lecture my abigail, fully persuaded, she had betrayed me, if I may call it so, though, as I never trusted her, I believe, 'tis not exactly the case—on questioning her, she denied the whole, but in such a manner, that I was fully convinced in her guilt, and accordingly dismissed her without farther ceremony—thus have I given those particulars you wish to be acquainted with, my present situation is none of the pleasantest, but, thank heaven, I am not very apt to give way to despair; the time is at no great distance, when I shall be at full liberty, to act as I think proper; teazed in the mean time, I expect to be, but have made up my mind to bear it; I might, no doubt, quit our family mansion, and take up my residence with some of my friends, but it would answer no good purpose, for the fact is, they, one and all, pronounce me
imprudent
at least, thus to throw myself and fortune away, as they call it, on a man, who cannot,
now,
make such settlements as I am intitled to—I, on the contrary, tell them, he has made all I ever had an ambition for—he has settled his heart upon me—I hear his charming sister chose to live in London, rather than continue in the country, where the misfortunes of her family, will of course, be a subject of conversation for ages—I think, she judged perfectly right—there too, she is more immediately under the protection of her generous noble minded brother; Oh! how much contrast to mine! I am told, she resembles him, both in mind and person—happy, my dear Lady Bell, should I have been, had it been in my power, to offer the lovely girl an asylum with me—such a companion would have been the most desirable thing in life, but my brother's rooted aversion to her whole family, puts that out of the question at present—when the happy day arrives, that he is no longer my
master,
I shall make it my first request, to my dear Rochley—till then, Imust deny myself that pleasure—in spite of the pretty trick that has been played me, I shall contrive some means to continue a correspondence with him, but there is no hurry, we know each others sentiments, that is the most material point—and so the matter rests, adieu, my dearest friend—you see I am in a fair way to be one of the poor persecuted damsels—this comes of
falling
in love—take care how you, my dear, get into this unfortunate scrape—and believe me, most truly,
Your affectionate, CAROLINE WESTBURY.
LETTER the Seventh.
Miss ROCHLEY, TO Miss LENOX.
London.
A Thousand thanks, my dearest Harriot, for your friendly intelligence, I instantly made my brother acquainted with it, who had the
civility
to laugh at our
feminine
apprehensions—how can you, my dear Orlando, said I, make a joke of what, to us appears a very serious cause of alarm? why, my sweet Isabella, replied he, because fighting is my profession, would you then, have me like you, tremble at the thoughts of a sword, or pistol?—no, certainly cried I, Heaven forbid, had you a man of honor to deal with, but who can say, what a wretch like Sir John may be capable of—I vow I should not wonder, if he had you assassinated—no, no, Isabella, when you form plans of that nature, you must lay the scene in Spain, or Portugal, there we hear of adventures of that nature, though I'll be sworn, where one story of the kind is true, fifty are false; depend upon it, you have nothing of that kind to apprehend—certain it is, I should be sorry, on my Carolines account, to have a fracas with him, nay, for her sake, and for yours too, my dear Isabella, I will not seek an occasion of meeting him; as far as I can with honor, I will even avoid it—but, if by chance we do meet—and he should presume to insult me, by look or word, why my dear, I shall endeavour to teach him better manners—but take my word for it, he has too much regard for his person to put it needlessly in danger—I know him of old—he has adopted Hudibras's maxim
Great are the perils that inviron,
The man who meddles with cold iron.
but should it come to that, be assured he will be wise enough to consider, that
He who fights, and runs away,
May live to fight another day;
But he who is in battle slain,
Will never rise to fight again.
was it possible Harriot, to forbear laughing in spite of my fears, at the idea this gave me of his antagonist —I confess his agreeable vivacity put them almost to flight, I begin to think the creature will not have courage to face him, for according to Shakespeare, "conscience makes cowards of us all"; and I am sure, his must accuse him of envy, malice, and a thousand other diabolical passions—I again begged my brother for my sake, to be on his guard, he smiled, saying, he was on the point of obeying me, as he was just going to be on guard, at the Tower—you chuse to be witty, my dear Orlando, said I, but, though this duty will prevent me seeing you for some time, I rejoice to hear you
are obliged to be there,
as I think the wretch will not have courage to follow you to a place so capable of making a vigorous defence—he now, kindly kissed my cheek, bid me fear nothing, be chearful, amuse myself the best way I could, till he saw me again, and left me much more at ease, than when he entered; certain of his Carolines attachment, master of her invaluable heart, he is as happy as this world can make him.
You do not, my dear Harriot, altogether approve my retired plan of life—I have made no vows to seclude myself from the world, should I ever meet with a temptation to enter into its amusements—far from it, I am of too sociable a disposition for that, but I think, decency, propriety, not to mention my own feelings, forbid it at present—you forget Harriot, 'tis not many months since my dear father's death, and however we may have suffered by his imprudent conduct—I lament it most unfeignedly—another reason I have too, which you have also forgot—shall I—can I, do you think take advantage of my Orlando's generosity, and run into any unnecessary expences? forbit it, heaven—no, no, Harriot—I will content myself for a while with such amusements as I can enjoy, without robbing him of the little he is now master of—a time may come, when he can better spare it, and I am not so old, as to fear a decay in my charms, before I have an opportunity to display them to the world—in the mean time, assure yourself, I am not merely
comfortable,
but, as happy as a queen—I am upon my honor, and as a proof of it, I am just going to sing, and play Seaton Cliff—a new song, my Orlando brought me this morning, he tells me I shall like it—adieu,
Ever yours, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Eighth.
Miss WESTBURY, TO Lady▪ BELL SIDNEY.
Westbury-Hall.
I HAVE since you last heard from me, my dear Lady Bell, met with a trifle which gave (and very foolishly) half an hour's uneasiness—not more, for a moment's cool reflection convinced me, 'twas an artifice of my brothers, and his friend, Sir James Henderson—but take the particulars.
A few days ago we had dined,
tete a tete
—he was in better temper than usual, not a word of the colonel was said—'tis a subject
I
never start, though of all others, the most pleasing to me; he chose to be very eloquent in praise of Sir James, was
astonished
I did not see him in the same favourable light, so fine a fortune—such great connections, &c. and then so distractedly in love with me, so constant, in spite of the cold reception his addresses met with—I owned it was very astonishing, as I was reckoned a girl of taste, but there was no help for it, some people were blind to their own interest, and I supposed I was one of the unlucky number—he did not, I believe, greatly relish my manner of expressing myself, but said no more.
On his quitting the room, I observed a letter lying by the chair he had sat on—it was open—I cannot say I felt any sort of curiosity to view the contents, nor should I, had I not, by mere chance, seen the name of Rochley; I am now persuaded he had dropped it in that open manner, that I might see it, sensible, nothing less would tempt me to peruse it, and in this instance, he really did discover some share of sagacity.
Here follows a copy of the delectable scrawl; I own, as I said before, I was weak enough to be fluttered, for about half an hour—
Dear Jack,
You may make yourself perfectly easy, would I could hope the news I now send you, were likely to make me so—who knows but it may, your charming sister may possibly, when convinced, as she soon will be, that her favoured colonel is unworthy the honor she does him, treat me with less severity—he is at this very time, paying his addresses to a merchant's daughter in the city; she has fifty thousand pounds in her own power, and they say, her heart fell a sacrifice to his red coat, and cockade some time ago at Almack's—she freely told him so—and made him an offer of that convenient sum, on condition he wou'd take her into the bargain; to this, he very wisely agreed, and they are to be married without farther ceremony, next week.—What I tell you, you may depend upon as a fact, for I had it from the girls brother, (father she has none) and he curses her for a fool—so you may make yourself easy, no fear of his being grafted into your family
now.
—One thing I make a point of; not a word of this to your sister, I wish not to be the first who shall inform her of it, she may perhaps fancy I am mean enough to triumph on the occasion—I do not—I own I cannot help being highly pleased, because I flatter myself, were he once fairly out of her reach, she may chance to cast a favourable eye upon your humble servant.—One thing is certain, if she does not—curse me, if I care a straw if all the rest of her sex were blind.—Once more, mind what I say—no tatling—I know you will be bursting to tell her—but, if you do—or at least, if you give me as the author of the intelligence, I'll blow your brains out the next time we meet; my officiousness, as she will call it, can only give her a worse impression of me, than she has already, and that is needless—so be dumb, I charge you, she will hear it soon enough from others,
Yours, JAMES HENDERSON,
How do you like it Lady Bell?—artful, and really better manufactered than I believed either of them capable of—I hope you will own it was enough to stagger one at the first reading—I confess it did me—for after all, men are but men. However, I am fully determined not to believe one word of the matter—and, as I love to do things openly and honestly, I have treated my colonel with a copy of it, inclosed in a few lines from myself; civilly desiring he will himself tell me, whether there is any truth in it, as I would sooner take his word, than that of any other person—at the same time, adding my opinion, which as I have already told you is, that 'tis an abominable falsehood—I did not think it quite convenient to tell
him,
who was the eloquent author of this epistle,
that
might have led to disagreeable consequences—but, what you will grant, is still a better joke, I have taken no notice of having found it, though, that it was dropped on purpose for me to pick up, is as clear as noon day—I could expire with laughing at the thoughts of my having thus disappointed the dear creatures, by pretending to know nothing of the matter.
When we met at tea—I found my brother was brimfull of expectation—I affected to be more gay, more lively than usual—yet, took care not to over act my part; I was humming a favourite air, when he came in, and continued it; he was visibly in the fidgets—tried first one chair, then another—but all in vain—I made the tea with all imaginable composure—and at last, finding I would not break the ice, and of course, fearing the matter would come to an untimely end, if he did not lend a helping hand to restore it.
Caroline said he, looking very like a fool; pray did you find a letter? I have dropped one some where, and cannot, for my soul, find it.
You see, my dear Lady Bell, I had nothing for it, but to tell an absolute
lye
mincing the matter would have spoiled the joke—no, replied I, I really saw none—no, cried he, shocked to death at the very idea that his plot should have miscarried—surely you must, for I am pretty certain, I had it in my pocket at dinner—are you equally certain, said I, you have not lost it out of doors? O! quite so, replied he, it must have fallen in the dining room, while taking out my handkerchief, 'tis very likely, said I, I will ring, and order a servant to look for it, it may be there still, perhaps, or some of them may have picked it up—I hope it is of no great importance, in case it is not to be sound?—this was an aukward sort of a question, was it not, my dear Lady Bell? he felt it to be so, and looked more foolish, if possible, than before, and waved giving an answer—I rung the bell—John step into the dining room, and see if you can find a letter there, your master has dropped one, and fancies it was in that room—away went John.
I need hardly tell you the poor epistle was not to be found—make farther enquiries said I, amongst the servants, some of them may have got it—lost, it cannot be,
in the
house, and, unless there were bank bills in it, I can hardly suppose any of them can have motives for, not restoring it—I hope it contained none, brother.
Such was the command I had of my countenance, my dear friend, that, I saw plainly, I had fairly taken him in—no, you never saw mortal in so ridiculous a situation—'tis impossible to conceive it—what was now to be done? here was a fine well concerted plot blown to air, he had sense enough to see, that telling me the contents would never do—'twas too late—I should immediately suspect he had dropped it on purpose, or, why not have told me the mighty news at
dinner,
if he could do it now—this argument might have no weight, had the business been of an honest nature▪ I am sensible—but, here the case was different, he
felt
I should not believe one word of the story, if told simply, without all the coroberating circumstances contained in the unfortunate epistle—it was to do it justice, wrote most plausibly—Sir James begging
he would not
inform me of it, for instance —how
now,
tell it without disobeying that injunction, and of course, robbing his poor friend of the merit, he hoped to acquire, by that very
injunction:
This was a dilema not to be got over.
What then could the silly soul do better than let the matter drop? and this, he very prudently did—whether this disaster will cure them of ploting, heaven only knows—you see not a doubt remains with me, that it was a plot—though I have not yet had it cleared up, by my dear Rochley.
This I hope to have in a few days, as I have taken effectual care, neither
my
letter, nor
his
answer shall again fall into my brothers hands—and he, I fancy, fearing his answer to his confederate, might, by some unlucky chance, fall into mine, has thought proper to set off full speed, for London, to tell the story in person
I would give something to hear their dialogue on the subject; poor Sir John can make but a very so, so, figure on the occasion, his friend will set him down as a mere marplot, though, I think I have the best title to that appellation—for, 'twas certainly I that marr'd it.
I flatter myself the story will divert your ladyship, and so I leave you, that you may laugh without interruption.
Yours, ever, CAROLINE WESTBURY.
LETTER the Ninth.
Miss ROCHLEY, TO Miss LENOX.
London.
ALAS, my dear Harriot, your fears, your kind apprehensions were but too well founded!—I may now say, I am as wretched a being as ever existed—compleatly wretched—'tis possible, the dreadful news may, e'er this have reached you, but the particulars cannot, and well I know the melancholy story will be told by my loved brothers enemies, with every possible aggravation, for 'tis known only to them—the particulars I mean, alas! the event can be no secret!—I am almost blind with weeping, and can scarce see what I write, yet, what other consolation is now left me?—little did your poor Isabella think, when she last wrote to you in such good spirits, that she was in a few days to be reduced to such deplorable distress, you have seen me bear the loss of fortune without a sigh, still blessed with the tender affection of a beloved brother, I found nothing wanting to my happiness—he was all the world to me—but I have, perhaps, seen him for the last time—Oh my Harriot! do I live to write it? I cannot proceed—my heart is torn with anguish, it bleeds for the misfortunes of my amiable Orlando—yes, my dear Harriot, 'tis still for him I mourn—all his prospects of felicity are now for ever blasted—fate has done its worst, he has mortally wounded the brother of his Caroline—judge then the condition I am in at this distracting moment.
Sitting some days ago at my harpsichord, in order to practise another new song the dear creature had sent me, that I might sing it to him, when next he called—the following letter was brought me.
It pains me more than I can express, to give my tender, my affectionate Isabella, one moments uneasiness—think then, my beloved sister, what I now suffer, while thus obliged to tell her, I fear it may be long e'er I see her again—Oh! that I could find words to soften the sad story, for gladly would I, at the instant I am under the cruel necessity of wounding your feeling heart, also, pour into it, the balm of consolation, but my wishes are vain—know then my Isabella, your brother has wounded—and, alas! 'tis seared mortally—the brother of the woman he adores—need I add more to convince you I am wretched?—before you receive this, I shall be on my way to the continent; I fly, my beloved Isabella, more for your dear sake than my own—the idea of leaving you friendless, I could not stand, I fly, in order to preserve a life, which, for your sake, and for yours only, I think worth my care, had there been any witness to the transaction, on whose honor I could have depended, I should have had little or nothing to apprehend, but there unfortunately was not—Sir John and his friend Henderson, were alone privy to it—a few persons however, gathered round us when the deed
was done,
and the former then, in dying accents, had the baseness to declare to them, I was the aggressor and his murderer—this horrid, this false accusation Sir James endeavoured to confirm—what then had I to hope? they might have considered that, as there were two to one, the story appeared improbable, but, in the confusion, a scene of this nature naturally occasions this reflection, did not occur, or, father was not attended to, for I offered it in my justification—happily for me, the night was exceedingly dark, and, while they were employed in conveying him to the nearest surgeon, I made my escape, and, instantly getting into the first carriage I met with, drove home, put up a few things, and accompanied by my faithful Frederick, jumped into a post chaise, and set off for Dover; this I write at the first stage, my beloved Isabella—you shall hear from me again, when safely landed on the other side of the water—keep up your spirits, my dear sister, exert that fortitude, you have on a former melancholy crisis, given such evident proofs you are possessed of—remember, it will be the greatest consolation I can now enjoy, to hear you do not sink under this affliction—God bless and preserve you, my Isabella, and grant we may yet meet again in happier days, prays your ever tenderly attached, and truly,
Affectionate Brother, ORLANDO ROCHLEY.
Happily for me, the worthy Mrs. Bellmour came with it herself—I had no sooner cast my eyes over the distracting contents, then I fell lifeless on the sopha where I sat—but my grief you will naturally conceive, so need not attempt to describe what I felt at that terrible moment, or, what I still feel—I am unable to write any more at present—alas! why should I, what can I say that will not distress
you,
as well as myself?—I am dying with impatience, to hear again from my poor Orlando—Mrs. Bellmour informs me this moment, the vile Sir John is still alive, though, there are no hopes of his recovery—wretched as he has made me, I, yet, for my beloved brothers sake, earnestly pray that he may survive it; Oh! Harriot▪ pity me, and join your prayers to those of your
Ever affectionate, but truly unhappy▪ ISABELLA ROCHLEY▪
LETTER the Tenth.
Miss WESTBURY TO Lady BELL SIDNEY.
LONDON.
I Would sooner have acknowledged the favor of your kind, your affectionate letter, my dear Lady Bell, had it been in my power—but what with the dreadful shock I have met with, and the hurry of my journey, it was impossible—I know you will forgive the seeming want of attention, at a time like this—I arrived in town sooner by some hours, than I believed it could have been done, indeed I never quitted the carriage, but drove night and day, such was my impatience to see my poor brother. Alas, I no longer remember his unkindness, his present situation alone engrosses all my care—he still lives, my dear friend, and the surgeons tell me, he may linger for some time; but they give me no farther hopes—he appeared sensible of my attention, in thus hurrying to town? but shocked me beyond expression, by the ungenerous manner in which he mentioned Colonel Rochley—ungenerous I must call it, since no power on earth will ever be able to persuade me he could act in a dishonorable manner—this, my dear Lady Bell, is a point from which I never will recede, in whatever light the rest of the world may look upon the unfortunate affair.
He is my brother 'tis true—but this circumstance alone, shall not tempt me to do injustice to the most amiable, the most worthy of men; though, alas! that man can now be nothing to me, my hopes of happiness are for ever destroyed, whether he is innocent or guilty, but still I will be just—Oh no!—it was not in his nature to take undue advantage of even his greatest enemy—
never
shall they persuade me of it—who, but the prejudiced can give credit to so cruel an aspersion; nay, were not appearances strongly against (must I say) my unfortunate brother? surely they were—he was accompanied by his friend—Colonel Rochley was alone when they met—this, even they themselves cannot deny—but they add, he was the agressor, he sought the quarrel, by first insulting Sir John—never will I believe it—no, his regard for me, I am well assured, would have prevented that, I know it perfectly; nay, I am no less certain, he would, on my account, have put up with more from him, than from any man breathing, I know it well—great must have been the provocation, that could tempt him to an action, which he could not but be sensible must put an end to all his hopes of obtaining the hand of your Caroline—so that whatever happens—whether my brother lives, or dies, he is as far as the nature of the shocking case will admit justified in my opinion—Oh! how my heart bleeds for his amiable sister, my dear Lady Bell, what must her distress be at this cruel moment? did I but know where to find her, I would fly to offer every consolation in my power—indeed I would let the illjudging world say what they pleased, my own feelings would acquit me, my heart tells me it would be an act of humanity, and I would trust to its dictates—but I have not the smallest clue to guide me to the lovely mourner. She may by this time possibly have left London—my brother asks for me, I hear, I must bid your Lordship adieu,
Ever yours, CAROLINE WESTBURY.
LETTER the Eleventh.
Colonel ROCHLEY TO ISABELLA.
CALAIS.
DURST I but flatter mysel?, this would find my dearest sister tolerably recovered from the shock, I am but too sensible my last letter would give her, half my distress would be at an end—after a few hours sailing, I arrived safely here, and safely I may remain here, till my unfortunate affair can be happily adjusted; let this console you, my beloved Isabella, during my absence, long it will not be, I hope, happen what will; I have friends, and powerful ones too, who will do all they possibly can to serve me; I am, therefore, under no apprehensions for the consequences, your Orlando's honor, has never yet, thank Heaven, been called in question, nor will it now.
I have sent over the
real state
of the case to my worthy General, I have received many proofs of his friendship and regard, and am certain he will not now withdraw them—the ungenerous account Sir John wished to propagate, be assured, my Isabella will not gain credit, my character is too well known, so is his—I say not this by way of reflection on him, I scorn the thought—I mention it merely as a matter from which you my sister may draw some consolation—he still lives, I find by a letter I received yesterday from a friend—who can say, but he may yet recover?—independent of my own safety it would give me unspeakable satisfaction—believe me I am not one of those who can, however honorably, be the death of a fellow creature, without remorse; I, my dear Isablla, though conscious the fatal deed was done in
self-defence,
feel it a very serious matter, and trust
that
circumstance will acquit me in the sight of Heaven, in the opinion of the world, I cannot doubt but it will—let me hear from you immediately, I will give you my address before I seal my letter, let me have the happiness of hearing you have exerted yourself on this occasion, that you bear the trial as becomes one of your excellent understanding; tell me also, whether Mrs. Bellmour is as attentive, as anxious to render your situation agreeable and convenient, as she was when I left you—and tell me truly—I will not knowingly, suffer my Isabella to be treated with disrespect▪ —I think she is incapable of it—I have been thinking, I know not how justly, that it might perhaps save you some trouble, were you to change your name till my return; what I mean is, the friends of Sir John may possibly be indelicate enough, should they by chance find out your place of residence to make some impertinent inquiries about me—this may not—indeed 'tis not very probable it should happen; but I would, to the utmost of my power, guard my beloved sister from even the shadow of an insult, and I should look upon any enquiry they might think proper to trouble you with, in regard to the affair in that light; at any rate, it can have no bad effects, the idea occured to me, I therefore mention it, though I believe on reflection 'tis quite unnecessary, so do as you please my dear.
You may possibly wonder how I have been able to write so long a letter, without once naming
Miss Westbury
—no longer you see, dare I indulge myself in calling her my Caroline—that is a felicity I must now resign—yet, she is dear, infinitely dear to me, and must ever be so while I have life—but, though all my fond, my flattering hopes are thus cruelly blasted, I would not willingly forfeit her esteem, I have therefore presumed (unhappily circumstanced as I am) to write to her, that I might as far as is consistent, with truth and honor, justify myself; I have the vanity to believe
she
will not readily give credit to any report she may hear, if any such there are that will throw a stain on my character, I think she will do me more justice—even the word of a dying brother, should he dare to persist in his first ungenerous, ungentleman like assertion, will not, I am confident, induce
her,
to believe I could act dishonourably.
I have frequently regretted my dear Isabella, that with minds so congenial as yours and my beloved Caroline's, you should be strangers to each other—yet, alas! what would it now have availed?—you would only have been more sensible of her worth, and of course, have felt your Orlandos disappointment the more severely—adieu, my sister, my
friend,
let me soon receive such a letter from you, as you think, will give pleasure to the heart of your tenderly attached,
And affectionate Brother, ORLANDO ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Twelfth
ISABELLA, TO Colonel ROCHLEY.
London.
YES—I will endeavour to write such a letter as I think will give pleasure to the heart of the most amiable of brothers, is there any effort in my power, I would not exert to the utmost, for this dear purpose? oh no!—I have recovered the sad shock your former letter gave me, indeed I have—I am quite well again—even you my Orlando, who give me credit for so large a share of fortitude, would be amazed to see how well I bear it—are you not pleased with your poor Isabella for this? but I am sure you are—through Mrs. Bellmours means, I hear daily of Sir John, and have at length the inexpressible happiness of informing you he is not only still alive, but the doctors begin to have hopes—faint hopes they are, I believe, but this is something, I shall, with the probability of that wished event, his recovery I mean, be able to bear your absence without repining—for not, for worlds, would I have you return till you can do it with perfect safety, and this cannot be till he is pronounced out of danger, which is yet very far from being the case—at present he has not only his wounds to contend with, but a violent fever,
occasioned by them, they say
—alas what will they not say, to aggravate the melancholy event? indeed Mrs. Bellmour tells me, should he thus linger for a twelvemonth, and dye at the end of it, the surgeons may pronounce them the cause of his death—is this possible?—yet it may to be sure, bring on a bad state of health, which may—but let me not think of it—I will believe better things.
I rejoice to hear you have wrote to Miss Westbury—or, shall I say your Caroline? yes, I will indulge the dear hope that she may yet be yours—should her brother live, who can prevent it—and is there not now a
probability?
what would I not have given for this a few days ago—I mistake the charming girls character exceedingly, my dear Orlando, if she can so far mistake
yours,
as to harbour a thought injurious to your honor—she knows you too well—and I must say she knows her brother too well also, to take his word for—an impossibility.
And now let me do justice to my good friend Mrs. Bellmour, by answering your sweetly kind enquiries—believe me, she is more attentive, more obliging, if possible, every day; I really can never be sufficiently grateful for her tender care of me, when I first heard of the sad affair which has robbed me of your dear society—I will, now I have pretty well got over the shock, confess I thought it would have killed me, so did my truly kind friend, I believe, and, but for such a friend I cannot say what might happened—but I am now as I before assured you, quite well, and you see, in better spirits than my Orlando expected—
a-propos
—I had almost forgot to answer one part of your dear letter, I mean in regard to changing my name for a while—I cannot see any necessity for it, that is certain—yet, two circumstances have determined me to do it—the first, because the idea took its rise from my ever kind and considerate brothers care of his grateful Isabella, none but a mind delicate, and anxious as yours, could have formed one of that nature—had I no other motive, that alone, would have induced me to adopt the plan; the second is as follows:
The day before yesterday, a person quite a stranger to Mrs. Bellmour, stopped her as she was going out at the door, and she says, in an aukward kind of a manner, asked the young lady's name, who lodged with her—pray let me first ask you, replied she; what is your reason for desiring to know?—the man not being prepared sor this very prudent question I presume, hesitated, and was at a loss how to answer it—but again begged she would tell him—you must excuse me, Sir, said she, I do not think myself authorized to do it without her permission—you are a stranger to me, and of course, to the lady, since you do not even know her name—I have several young people in my house, and consequently cannot be certain which of them you mean, if your business is of a nature necessary for any one of them to be acquainted with, you must contrive to inform her of it in a proper manner—but I am persuaded you are mistaken—indeed I am not, replied he—she left him, but instead of going out as she intended, very prudently returned into the house, in order to warn her family to be on their guard, in case he should make any farther enquiries, or knock at the door—she came up to me to tell me, thinking it might afford me a moments amusement—now, though I have very little reason to fancy he really did mean me—yet, 'tis possible he might; these are my two reasons—which, tho' both trifling, when taken seperately, yet, when joined, they amount to something, and so my dearest brother, address your letters for the future, to—to—any Miss you please—not so neither—'tis necessary to fix on
one,
though no matter what—Miss Beverly, then let it be.
I shall tell Mrs. Bellmour, and give the latter circumstance only, as my reason for the change—she, I well know, will approve whatever has prudence for its motive, and, as I am situated, one cannot be too cautious, a stranger as I am, and
now
deprived of my dear protector—adieu, my beloved brother, may Heaven preserve, and soon restore you to your,
Ever affectionate, Friend and Sister, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Thirteenth.
Miss ROCHLEY, TO Miss LENOX.
London.
REjoice with me, my dear Harriot, I have had a second letter from my Orlando, he is well, is safe, and writes in as good spirits, as a feeling mind in his unfortunate situation, can be supposed to do—what a brother am I blessed with, how kind, how affectionately attentive to every thing that concerns his poor Isabella, I might name ten thousand instances, but one shall suffice at present, nor need I indeed have mentioned this, since you my Harriot, know him well—but it is in some degree necessary to clear up what is to follow, or what in fact may as well go before.
Know then, that for a while, th at is to say, till his anxiously wished return, you are to address your letters to me, by the name of Beverly.—You are, I presume, amazed; but I am going to explain the matter, he tells me, that while reflecting on my present unprotected state, it occured to him, that it was possible Sir John's family, should they discover where I was to be found, might be indelicate enough to trouble me with enquiries about him; and, as he kindly wishes to guard me against every possibility of being insulted, he proposed my taking another name during his absence.—Now, though I think there is no probability of this happening, yet as it was an idea that occured to my Orlando, whose sentiments are more delicate, more refined in regard to what concerns our sex, than any mortal I know—I could not refuse to gratify him, not that he makes a point of it—by no means, on the contrary, he afterwards says, he is persuaded it is unnecessary, adding, do as you please.—I will certainly do it, as it can have no disagreeable consequences, and may save me the trouble, he so kindly apprehends—Miss Beverly, then my dear Harriot, must for some time be your friend and correspondent.
I have the satisfaction to tell you, I hear Sir John, it is thought, may yet get over it—but he is still exceedingly ill, if he does recover, it must be a work of time, he had lived a very irregular life, his constitution by no means a good one, and rendered still worse by every kind of intemperance, yet should he unfortunately die within the twelve month, I am told it may be imputed to that miserable
ren contre
—how dreadful is this, my dear Harriot—how very hard upon my darling brother—but, as I perpetually say, let us hope the best.
And, now for want of a more important subject to fill the rest of my paper, let me tell you, I have lately had a peep at some of the
beau monde,
whose society you so much wish me to enjoy—a peep I say, for it was no more—Mrs. Bellmour is busily employed at present, in embroidering a trimming for the birth-day—it is for a Lady Beningfield, a young and handsome widow—I never beheld any thing more truly elegant, I often sit by her while she is at work at it, by way of spending an hour agreeably, when tired of my book or music—A day or two ago, I was thus engaged, when the fair widow's carriage drove to the door—I would have retired, but unluckily they were in the passage before I could reach it, the street door being open, a servant having that instant came in, of course I must have met them there—I returned to my seat very easy about the matter—in she swam most affectedly—followed by another Lady and a Beau—a Belle without a Beau, you know my Harriot, would be as aukward as—as—I leave you my dear to find a simile—the beauty—elegance, and expressive countenance of her fair friend struck me exceedingly; never did I behold so much sweetness, yet a great deal of vivacity in any mortal before, no affectation, no airs—the other made up of both to her very
finger ends
—now for the Beau, cries my Harriot?—why, I must do him the justice to say, he appears, if I may judge from so slight a knowledge of him as if he deserved a more manly appelation—except my dear Orlando, I never beheld so fine a figure, nor a man so perfectly graceful—mighty fine cries Harriot, upon my word Isabella, you have a pretty knack at description.—
Must I add, Harriot, your poor friend seemed to attract some degree
of their notice? in spite of the
enchanting,
the
divine
trimming, as her ladyship every moment called it. The young lady gazed upon me in so particular a manner, yet with so much respect and sweetness in her manner, that I really fancied she was endeavouring to recollect me believing she had seen me before—how true this is I know not, but in that light her glances struck me—as for his lordship—for he was a lord, I soon found—he of course could not overlook a female, who has been reckoned something more than tolerable, I caught him peeping—so, alas! did Lady Beningfield, and many a gentle tap on the shoulder she gave him, for not paying quite enough attention to the dear trimming; twenty times did she call him an insensible wretch! and other such phrases peculiar to the
bon ton
—she too once or twice deigned to cast an eye upon me, but soon changed them to a more pleasing object, by turning to a large mirror, which was placed most commodiously before her—all matters settled—a thousand orders given, they at length took their leave, her ladyship crying,
come creature, why don't you lead me to my carriage,
for the Beau was unfortunately stretching his neck over Mrs. Bellmour's shoulder, to get a last look at your Isabella—no small share of vanity you'll cry—I only relate facts, my dear, and as I am not overwhelmed with the variety of my amusements, chose to make the most of this subject, and so farewell.
I am going to write to my beloved Orlando, and must now bid you adieu, not however, till I have told you, I am ever most truly yours,
ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Fourteenth.
Miss WESTBURY TO Lady BELL SIDNEY.
LONDON.
THANK heaven! my dear Lady Bell, my brother is rather better, the fever is abated, but he is still in a miserable way, the doctors, however, say he may possibly live; I am willing to believe the best, though, alas! I fear this is not their real sentiments—I must tell your Ladyship an incident which happened a few days ago—'tis ridiculous I grant, but has nevertheless, made such an impression on me, that I am tempted to doubt my senses—Lady Beningfield called on me the other morning, and insisted on my going with her to an embroiderers to see a trimming she has ordered for the birth-day. She is no favourite of mine, you know, however, as I had been so long confined to a sick room, I thought a drive for an hour might raise my spirits—Lord Templeton as usual was with her, and is absolutely, if possible, more irresistable than ever—you see I can be just though I have given
my heart
to another; perhaps had her Ladyship not known of my attachment she might not have asked my company, since she fears every woman who presumes to cast an eye upon him has a design upon his heart, which she is determined to conquer or die in the attempt.—
entre nous
I am fully convinced he does not care three straws sor her; but let her Ladyship make this flattering discovery, 'tis no affair of mine.—
All this is nothing to my story however, and my story is a very absurd one when you get at it—to the embroiderers we went, my dear Lady Bell—and there had my Rochley's name been Beverly, I should not hesitate to swear I saw his beautiful sister, the resemblance struck me so forcibly I could not keep my eyes off the elegant creature, in my life I never beheld two beings so strikingly alike—the same expressive dark eyes, the same lovely mouth, the very dimples that so enchantingly play about it, the teeth—in short, I am very ridiculous—her name as I said above I found on somebody speaking to her is Beverly, and so ends
my
story— not so hers, or I am much deceived, for be she who, or what she will, I will lay my life his Lordship is fairly caught—'tis no wonder, that's certain,—he had no sooner cast his eyes upon her, than farewell common sense; not a rational answer could either her Ladyship or I get from him, though many an
inrational
question did she torment him with,—he looked and sighed, and sighed and looked again—so did her Ladyship I believe, but with very different sensations—she smiled, she ogled, she chid, but could make nothing of him, he was indeed, as she perpetually calls him a stupid wretch, which being
interpreted,
means neither more nor less in the mouth of a
very
fine lady, than—you are a divine fellow.
On this unfortunate occasion, however, I fear she meant it literally; and to mend the matter, we were no sooner seated in the carriage, than he cried, what a lovely creature was that we have just seen!—Where, for heavens sake? asked Lady B. (affecting to look out of the window, by way of making us believe she fancied he spoke of somebody in the street)—Where? answered his lordship,—how, my dear Lady Beningfield, can you ask that question? Surely, you must have observed her at Mrs. Bellmours,—not I, truly, returned she, I observed nothing, lovely there, I give you my word, except my trimming; that is a fib, thought I, and so thought somebody else. I'll be sworn. Did you too overlook the charming girl, Miss Westbury, said he, turning to me? Surely, you could not as you had no trimming to engage your attention. Indeed, I did not, my lord, nor can I believe her ladyship could do it either, replied I, she is joking, depend upon it; not I truly, cried she, brideling, I see no joke in it, except that some people are very apt to discover beauties where others can find none—the truth is, I suppose you are both joking, for I can hardly imagine such a prodigy as you describe could be there, and I not see her. There was now I recollect it a tall, starched looking thing stuck up there, who gave herself all the airs of a beauty—aye, and all the graces too, Lady Beningfield, cried his lordship.—At this instant, the wheel of the carriage by some unlucky—indeed, I should rather say,
lucky
means or other, got entangled in that of a coach passing by us. She took this favourable opportunity to be amazingly alarmed, screamed, flung herself into his lordship's arms, and there fainted,
as it were
—he could do no less, you know, my dear Lady Bell than be alarmed also; the matters were soon adjusted between the honest folks without, but not so within: in vain I held my
eau de luce
to her nose; in vain my lord said and did all that lord could do.—I cannot say I was under any violent apprehensions, nor he neither I believe; however, as one must get the better of a fright sooner or later, she at length thought proper to open her languid eyes faintly exclaiming, "Where am I?"
I had very near replied as Scrub does in the Beaux Stratagem, to the same question on a similar occasion.—Here, my lady, since this was certainly the stratagem of a Belle,—my lord in pity to her
weakness
forbear to renew the subject we were on before, conscious, I believe,
that
had more to answer for than the poor wheel.—They soon after sat me down, and what then passed between them I know not; but I fear his lordship's thoughts would be too much engrossed by the charming Miss Beverley, to permit him to play the lover with a good grace—indeed I never believed he wished to be looked upon in that light by Lady B, yet, the world says it is to be a match—that she wishes it is abundantly clear, but I cannot bring myself to fancy he has any such intention. The lady is handsome, no doubt, and rich too—so is he—fortune can be no object to him—but these widows, my dear Lady Bell, are a dangerous set of beings,—there is nothing impossible, she may draw him in perhaps—'tis certain there has long been a violent flirtation between them, she is artful, and doats upon him to distraction—how it will end heaven knows if Miss Beverly has, as I verily think she
has,
made a serious impression on him; he cannot do a wiser thing than to make the most of the
fracas
above mentioned, 'tis a fine foundation for a quarrel, he has only to persist in doing justice to that lovely girl, and the business is done.
I would give the world to know who she is, and how she came there, for she appeared to be at home, yet, 'tis utterly impossible she can belong to Mrs. Bellmour,—impossible,—her air, her manner, in short, her whole appearance forbids an idea of that nature.—Adieu, 'tis ridiculous to think any more about it.
Yours, ever, C. WESTBURY.
LETTER the Fifteenth.
Miss ROCHLEY, TO Miss LENOX.
London.
WOULD you believe it Harriot?—yet, after all, why not? Did I not formerly tell you my days of conquest were yet to come?—Lord Templeton has actually been to call upon Mrs. Bellmour, by way of ordering a waistcoat, &c. &c.—but in fact, as she tells the story, to make a thousand enquiries about your friend Isabella,—and pray, said I, a good deal startled, you may well believe, (fearing he had looked upon me in a light it hurts my pride—my delicacy, to think of)—what answer did you, my dear Mrs. Bellmour make to his impertinent questions?—Had his lordship replied she made any that merited that term, be assured my dear Miss Rochley you should never have been shocked by the knowledge of them from me.—I beg your pardon, my good friend, said I; I ought, indeed, to have done you more justice than to believe you would have mentioned a subject you thought could give me offence; but those sort of gay men are but too apt to take liberties with our sex, especially if friendless and unprotected as I am, 'tis too true, replied she, but his lordship, I believe, though young, and a man of fashion, as 'tis called, has fewer of the fashionable vices than most of his sex,—I know his character well, 'tis a most amiable one, I never indeed saw him till the morning he first came here with Lady Beningfield; but much I have heard in his praise I do assure you.
I own I was a good deal surprized at the manner in which he spoke of you, as I have heard he is paying his addresses to Lady B; this circumstance made me more reserved in my answers than perhaps I should otherwise have been▪ —Ah! you could not be too much so, my dear Madam, cried I, piqued at what she mentioned—for however polite, however specious his behaviour, all the enquiries he could make,
that
being the case, must be looked upon as very impertinent—I am hurt—exceeedingly
hurt
by them I confess, and must intreat you to answer no more of them—hear me patiently, said my worthy friend, pray do not condemn, either his lordship or me, till you have heard all that passed—again I begged her pardon, and promised to be attentive—he spoke in raptures, continued she, yet with the highest respect, begged I would tell him who you were, of what family, and a thousand things of that nature—to this, I replied, your name was Beverly—that you was a young lady of fashion and family—particular business had brought you to town, and as I had had the charge of your education, you had done me the honor to prefer my house to any other, being a stranger in London—
And now my lord, continued I, permit me in my turn to ask your reasons, for wishing to know those circumstances? Miss Beverly is at present under my care, she is extremely dear to me, and I am of course deeply interested in all that concerns her—I honor you for it, replied he, you have certainly a right to question me in your turn— I can only say, my motives are such, as even the charming Miss Beverly could not justly condemn; I was struck with the uncommon elegance of her person, her graceful manner—I will be very candid my lord, said I, finding he now made a pause—in talking of my accomplished friend, your lordship uses the language of a lover—pardon me, if I take the liberty of observing this is a
language;
I do not think you can use with propriety on this occasion—I am not to learn, my lord, that the world talks loudly, that you are paying your addresses to—Lady Beningfield—no man so circumstanced should—I will be candid, also, cried he, interrupting me—the world is very much deceived, if that is its opinion; be assured, had that been the case, I would have spared you the trouble I have now given you—of this I give you my honor—so saying, my dear Miss Rochley, he took his leave—and I hope you will now acquit me of having been guilty of any impropriety.
Indeed I do, replied I; I ought to have known you were incapable of it, my dear Mrs. Bellmour; yet you cannot, I think, wonder that a circumstance of this kind should surprise me, nor after all, can I conceive what his lordship means, I wish it may not be something relating to my dearest brother—but that is absurd—I forget he believes my name Beverly—she smiled at my speech; saying,
indeed Miss Rochley, were you not more void of vanity than thousands are, who have smaller pretensions to it, you could not, I think, be at a loss to guess
—he was as he says, and I will take upon me to affirm, he says truth, struck with your beauty—nothing could be more natural—he has not the character of a libertine—he has a very large fortune—is his own master—the enquiries he has made, are a convincing proof to me, that the wound you have made in his heart is not a slight one—whether it will heal without his, applying to you for a cure, I cannot say, though I rather doubt it—O! no fear of its proving mortal, replied I, men are not so vulnerable in these days, as they were formerly; the arrow must be tipped with gold, that now hopes to kill.—Could you my good friend have added with truth, when kindly giving him the catalogue of my virtues, that I was also possessed of considerable fortune; I have the vanity to think, he might have been seriously wounded; but as it is, be under no apprehensions, depend upon it, his lordship will recover—besides, what's to be done with his present flame, Lady Beningfield?—nay, cried she, he gave me his honor, the world was wholly mistaken in regard to that matter—that she is violently in love with him I know, from pretty good authority, indeed 'tis one of those secrets known by the whole town; but I firmly believe he has no more thoughts of marrying her Ladyship, than he has of doing me that honor—well said I, be that as it will, I am no less certain he will not marry me, and so let the matter rest—all I intreat, is my dear Mrs. Bellmour, in case he should take it in his head to mention me again, that you will be cautious; you know I am particularly circumstanced at present. I wish to avoid making any new acquaintance, till my brother's return—and especially under a feigned name.
Thus Harriot have I laid this important business fully before you —happy was it, I gave you my opinion of him in my last letter—were it still to do, you might fancy the picture a little flattered, in return for the portion he has bestowed upon me—adieu, my dear, let me hear from you soon, do not give me cause to think you more negligent than formerly,
Your's, ever, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Sixteenth.
Miss LENOX, TO Miss ROCHLEY.
Northampton.
WOULD you believe it, cries my dear Isabella? this lord has actually been making a thousand
impertinent
enquiries about me—no to be sure—who could be simple enough to credit so great an improbability—the story wont go down with me child.
Isabella, I am more than half out of my wits with joy—my father knows your adorer
well
—I will not tell you what he says of him, lest you should be out of your wits too,
in case he makes no more inquiries
—why, my dear creature, he is of all men upon the face of the earth, the very being formed to make a woman,
too happy in al
conscience
—I die to hear more of him, from you I mean—I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep, since I heard of his
impertinence.
Mrs. Bellmour behaved like an angel in the affair—don't be silly Isabella—don't play the fool—there's a medium in all things, one may be
over prudish
—be assured his lordship is a man of real honor, were I not certain of it, I would blot out the last sentence—Lady Beningfield will poison you, beyond a doubt, but that's a trifle—she is the greatest flirt breathing—and has made herself tolerably ridiculous about him already; but take my word for it he will never make himself so by marrying her—I could treat you with a bit of scandal, my dear, concerning her ladyship; but it would be thrown away upon you, as I know you have no taste for it.
Pray how is that miserable wretch Sir John, is he determined to make a die of it, out of mere spite to your brother? I believe, in my conscience, he will at least make the utmost of the disaster; though, he may perhaps hesitate a little about carrying the joke
quite
so far as death—do let me hear how things go on; but above all, tell me, if my lord has had the temmerity to be again
impertinent
—adieu—I am going a journey of five miles for a dinner; don't you think I shall have a good appetite? that is one of the many delights of a country life,—the carriage is at the door, so fare ye well my Isabella,
Yours, HARRIOT LENOX.
LETTER the Seventeenth.
Miss ROCHLEY, TO Miss LENOX.
London.
IS it possible—and does your worthy father really know Lord Templeton, and is he indeed such a prodigy?—I will not be
over prudish,
Harriot, and say— what is all that to me?—no, I will not; for the truth is, I am exceedingly glad to hear it in
case of accidents
—but before I bestow another line upon him, let me tell you, I have heard from my dear Orlando twice, since I wrote last to you—do not, my dear Harriot, now look stately, and say,
I might have heard ten times instead of twice:
—forgive my too long silence—I own my fault, and promise amendment—he is, thank Heaven! in perfect health and good spirits; his friend, the General, has promised to represent the affair in its true colours, and is of opinion, he has nothing to apprehend, should the worst happen, yet advises him to stay abroad a while, as the safest plan.
I am sorry to tell you, Sir John has had a return of his fever, and is again thought in danger—he was so well a few days ago, that I hear they talked of getting him conveyed, by easy journies to the country; but all thoughts of that sort are over for the present—Heaven forbid he should make a
die
of it, as you call it—most unfeignedly would his death be lamented, my dear Harriot!—not altogether on his own account indeed; but the consequences would be fatal to my dear brothers hopes—however, I would gladly flatter myself, as he has lived so long after the unfortunate
rencontre,
he may still get over it.
And now for another line or two about this same lord, my dear—what he means, Heaven only knows; but certain it is, he has repeatedly called on Mrs. Bellmour, imploring her to contrive some way or other for him to see me again—this she said, was a favour, she could on no account 'twas a liberty she had no right to take with Miss Beverley, she was intitled to more respect—would she then indulge him so sar, as acquaint him candidly with every particular of the charming girl's situation?—no, certainly—was again her answer, she had no authority to do it; though, of this be assured, added the worthy woman, the more your lordship knows of Miss Beverly's character, the more reason you will have to esteem her, since I can from a thorough knowledge of her, with truth, declare that beauty, which seems to have made so deep an impression on your lordship, is her least perfection; I have known her from a child my lord—I had the charge of her education, as I believe, I had the honor of telling you before—she is descended from one of the most respectable families in the kingdom—at least, few can boast of a better—but will you, my dear Mrs. Bellmour, said he, only inform me why the lovely creature lives thus retired? I can meet with no mortal who is acquainted with her, though I have made every possible enquiry for that purpose, in hopes I might by that means procure the honor of being properly introduced to her, but all in vain—this astonishes me,—I will freely own to you Mrs. Bellmour, she has made a very serious impression on me, my heart subscribes to all you have said in her praise, I have not a doubt of her worth—are you not cruel then my dear Madam, thus to deny me an opportunity to be still farther convinced you do her no more than justice?—indeed my lord, could I gratify your wishes with propriety, I would—I have too good an opinion of you, to believe your intentions are dishonourable, I will not shock my own feelings so much, as to suppose you would take this liberty with me if they were—I can only add, your lordship must have patience, I trust the time is not far distant, when Miss Beverly will have a lation with her, to whom your lordship may, without impropriety, apply for an introduction—till then, I am persuaded, she will on no account see any stranger—a relation?—yes, my lord, a near one—and one justly dear to her, should he have no objections to your lordship's being introduced to Miss Beverly; I think I may venture to say—she will have none, as he is well worthy that deference she ever pays to his judgment.
You alarm me, Mrs. Bellmour—is this so highly favoured relation a young man? perhaps—she smiling, replied;
he is a young man my lord; but you need not be so much alarmed, as your expressive,
perhaps,
implies you are:
—he now begged she would tell him his name, where he was—why absent—when I expected his return?—and in short a thousand silly questions of that nature: but to no purpose.
I had charged her to be cautious, you know, and she was most prudently so—provokingly so
he
seemed to think—and now my dear Harriot, let me know your thoughts on the matter also—as for mine, I have not yet been able to bring them into any sort of order; certain it is, I find his lordship has some times a share in them; but in so confused a manner, that I can give no account of it—'tis possible, I may be able to arrange them more methodically by and by—one sight of him is not quite sufficient for that purpose—were it consistent with propriety, I should have no violent objections to take a second view, particularly after reading the character you give of him; but it certainly is not, so I must, as Mrs. Bellmour, very wisely advised his lordship to do; wait till my Orlando's return, they may then adjust all the necessary preleminaries, in case the wonderful impression my charms have made upon him, should not, before that time, be worn out, to make room for some other—Lady Beningfield, you say, will undoubtedly treat me with a cup of poison, should I rob her of his heart—I vow, I never saw a woman, who appears more capable of it, but that's a trifle, as you say—and so, my dear Harriot, adieu,
Believe me, Ever yours, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Eighteenth.
Miss WESTBURY, TO Lady BELL SYDNEY.
I Hoped to have left town before now, my brother was so much better, that the doctors thought he might be removed without danger, and wished it, as change of air would have been of service to him—but his fever is returned with violence—Heaven knows what may be the consequence of this relapse.
What a miserable time have I had of it my dear Lady Bell—and what but a continuation of misery have I to expect, should he not recover?—alas! 'tis not the loss of him alone I shall have to deplore—my amiable Rochley
oo must be the object of my sorrow, for in that wretched case he never can be mine—but let me drop the melancholy subject, it sinks my spirits—why should I also sink yours.
You may possibly recollect my telling you, how violently Lord Templeton was struck with the charms of the elegant creature we saw some time ago at Mrs. Bellmours—I was convinced her charms had made a very deep impression—I however thought no more of it, till calling one day last week to enquire for my brother, I saw him—and by way of a little chat, asked, if he had been so fortunate as to get another sight of the lovely Miss Beverley?—I have not, yet I confess to you Miss Westbury, but I would give half my estate, could I obtain that happiness—are you serious my lord? (cried I, quite astonished to find him so
very far
gone)—upon my honor I am, replied he with fervor—I never beheld a creature so formed to captivate, she has absolutely robbed me of my peace—of your heart that is to say, I presume my lord—why in fact I believe the terms on this occasion are synonimous—yet 'tis not according to my ideas of love—I never till now could persuade myself, that passion could be excited by beauty alone, and except that she is beautiful as an angel, I ▪ know little more of her—but how comes that my lord, surely you might before now have contrived to learn, whether her mind is as lovely as her person? for my own part, I confess I have not a doubt of it, for never did I see a countenance so expressive of every thing that is amiable.
You are mistaken my dear Miss Westbury—it has been my principal employment from that time to this, but without success—the only intelligence I can gather concerning the charming girl, is from the person of the house where she resides—she indeed talks of her in terms of the highest respect, says she had the charge of her education, has known her from a child, that she is of a good family—but I am as great a stranger to
her,
as to her lovely friend, all this may be true—nay▪ my heart assures me of it—yet still there is something misterious—why this retired life? in so young a person it is wonderful, and creates a doubt, which I would give world's to have explained, and to be introduced to her—this Mrs. Bellmour could certainly do my lord.
Oh, no! this I asked, but was refused—'twas a liberty she could not presume to take, Miss Beverly made a point of seeing no strangers—
It is very odd, said I; yet, certainly, all this my lord is greatly in the the charming girl's favour—no doubt of it; she has, it seems, a relation, who is at present absent, and till his return has reasons for this reserve—a relation, my lord—is it a father, uncle, brother? good Heavens!—yet it cannot be—her name is Beverly—who is this relation, where is he?—none of these particulars could I learn, answered his lordship, except that he is a young man, and this information I got by mere chance—but why▪ my dear Miss Westbury that exclamation, what if her name was not Beverly?—O! my lord, were it not, I could lay my life she is sister to my friend Colonel Rochley—never did I in any two creatures behold so striking a resemblance—I could not refrain from scrutinizing her any more than your lordship; added I, smiling, though not merely on account of her uncommon beauty, but the astonishing likeness I found between them—Ah! would to Heaven, replied he, your conjecture was true, all my anxiety about what now appears so perplexing, would instantly vanish my only business, then would be to endeavour to gain her affections, could I but do that, I should think myself the happiest of men—fortune is no object to me, to raise an amiable, a deserving woman, to that rank she is so formed by nature, to adorn, would be the sublimest of all gratifications—but it cannot be—my cruel, my lovely enslavers name is Beverly—and I am, really, my dear Miss Westbury, at this moment in a most painful suspence.
But pray my lord, said I, give me leave to ask what lady Beningfield says to this new passion?—she at least would persuade the world, she is sole mistress of your heart— upon my honor, replied he, if she is, 'tis more than I know; for I can with strict truth declare, I never had an idea of putting it into her ladyship's possession; nay, I am no less certain it was in my own, till I beheld the lovely Miss Beverly, from that hour I confess 'tis rather a doubt with me, whether 'tis still in mine or not—if your lordship was to ask my opinion of the matter, I should pronounce all doubt out of the question—I believe you are right, madam; yet I own, I am unwilling to believe my case, quite so desperate, till better acquainted with the object of its attachment, and how to manage that, I cannot for my soul contrive—I am sorry for it, I do assure you my lord, for both your sakes. As I own myself so exceedingly prejudiced in her favour, that I think she must be worthy,
even
of your lordship's esteem, and that is saying a great deal—he gracefully bowed in return for my compliment, and bid me good morning—and now my dear lady Bell, I must wish you
good
night, I have sat scribling here till my fingers are cramped.
Adieu, yours, CAROLINE WESTBURY.
LETTER the Nineteenth.
Miss ROCHLEY, TO Miss LENOX.
London.
MRS. Bellmour came up to me this morning my dear Harriot to ask me a question, which she was polite enough to say I should absolutely decide as I thought proper
—it seems, a person to whom she is under some obligations had just sent to her (knowing her house was spacious and genteel) to ask whether she could conveniently accommodate a gentleman with an apartment in it for a month or six weeks, perhaps it might not be lo long, as he was only come to town on business which might possibly be settled in a shorter time; he wished to be near this family, who live it seems in the next street, is a man of fortune, and not young.
How could I, you know my dear Harriot, make any objections, supposing it had really been disagreeable to me, particularly as she was so good as to put it upon that footing?—none in the world, said I, my dear Mrs. Bellmour, I
can
have none; had it been a gay young man indeed—but in that case I well know that you yourself would have been the first to object,—most certainly, replied she, independently my dear Madam of your being in my house;—and pray, when is he to come?—this very evening; he only waits for my answer, which I could not think of sending till I had mentioned it first to you.—Be assured, replied I, I am exceedingly sensible of your very polite attention to me on this as well as every other occasion—on this she left me in order to send an immediate affirmative to her friend; so much for that business.
Now, Harriot, you must know as Lord Templeton and I are not likely to be farther acquainted, though to say truth, he has done his utmost endeavours towards it, I have some thoughts of setting my cap at this old neighbour of mine that is to be, he is it seems a man of fortune, and should▪ I find it equal to my ambition, I will give him credit for all other perfections. Are you not surprised, my dear, to find me in so flippant a humour? I have good reason—the
vile
Sir John is once more pronounced out of danger.—I may now you know venture to abuse him a little, though while I believed the
wretch
dying, I hope you observed I spared those
flattering
epithets; he is going to Bristol by the advice of his physicians—most heartily do I wish him a speedy recovery, but speedy or not, my beloved Orlando may now return when he chuses.
I have just dispatched this important intelligence to the dear creature, and trust it will not now be long e'er I shall have the supreme happiness to tell you that he is safely landed in England,—you no longer wonder at my spirits I presume—I am half, nay more than half out of my wits with joy, and am determined he shall find me married to this rich old soul on his arrival: it will be such an agreeable surprise you know, Harriot—to be sure we shall rather be hurried in the article of courtship, but as my▪ consent is ready 'tis the less matter, we may make love after we are fettered, since we have not time for it before, that will be something new, quite out of the common stile.—Poor Lord Templeton, 'tis really a pity, but there's no help for it, by the by he does not seem to have given up all hopes—perhaps, indeed, he has contracted a habit of calling here in his round of visits, for scarce a day passes without his asking Mrs. Bellmour how she does, and she says, how I do also?—The truth is, he made her very considerable offers, on condition she would contrive to let him meet me in her company—bnt she is not the kind of woman for that purpose, unless convinced beyond a doubt his designs were honourable.
She has no idea of my submitting to be looked at with a view to see whether he may happen to approve of me—this, however, was my way of expressing the matter,—marriage, and another pleasant circumstance they say, Harriot, goes by destiny—so if it is to be decreed we are to be united in the holy band of matrimony, the thing will of course come to pass without our troubling our heads about it; would his Lordship but adopt this doctrine, it would save his horses a considerable deal of labour. Lady Beningfield also calls here frequently, though her
divine
trimming has been finished some time; but she is an excellent customer to Mrs. Bellmour, yet, the latter suspects jealousy brings her ladyship as often as business, for she perpetually asks a thousand ridicuculous questions about me, evidently wishing to find out whether his lordship has ever seen me again? To this you know Mrs. B. has it in her power to give a satisfactory answer in the negative, which of course she does,—happily she does not enquire whether he has made any attempts of that nature, taking it for granted I suppose if he had, I should have been too much flattered by so great a distinction to have let him sigh in vain for an interview.—Silly creature, she knows but little of your friend if this is her opinion,—Adieu, my dear Harriot, let me have your congratulations on the good news I send you, and believe me as usual most affectionately,
Yours, ISABELLA ROCHLEY
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.