APPEARANCE IS AGAINST THEM, IN A SERIES OF LETTERS, IN THREE VOLUMES, BY THE AUTHOR OF EMILY HERBERT, OR PERFIDY PUNISHED.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
nted for THOMAS JONES, at his Circulating Library,
Bridge-Street, Westminster.
M. DCC. LXXXVI.
APPEARANCE IS AGAINST THEM.
LETTER the Twentieth.
Miss WESTBURY TO Lady BELL SIDNEY.
LONDON.
THANK heaven! I begin to breath again my dear Lady Bell, for upon my honor 'tis more than I can say I have done freely for some time, so great has been my anxiety and most painful suspence: my brother is at length pronounced out of danger, yet so weak and low that 'tis judged necessary he should drink the Bristol waters; we therefore propose setting off for that place next Tuesday; I shall accompany him as I think duty demands it of me,—though I am very sorry to say, I have already discovered his sentiments on a certain subject, continue as inveterate as ever, he has in spite of the unremitted; and let me say, the kind attention I have shewn him during his confinement, had the cruelty to express the most rooted aversion to the man, on whom he knows my happiness depends.
This horrid, this unjust prejudice, is really unpardonable, and puts it out of my power to feel for his sufferings as I otherwise should;—however, 'tis some consolation to reflect that he cannot
prevent
my felicity, though he has so long
retarded
it, and 'tis certainly very disagreeable to hear the most deserving, the most amiable of men thus
abused,
for so I may with too much reason term the language, he makes use of when talking of him. I am exceedingly hurt at this moment, as you will easily guess when informed of the cause.
I was sitting by him not an hour since when my woman brought me your letter—he fixed his eyes upon me while I read it, and observing the pleasure it seemed to give me, cried, though so weak he could scarcely raise his voice without pain,—Caroline, tell me truly, is that letter from that d—n'd fellow, Rochley? By Heavens! if I thought you dreamt of having any further connection with such a beggarly—. Stop, Sir John, said I, shocked beyond endurance at his expressions, I will not patiently hear a person, I blush not to confess I have the highest esteem for thus vilified.—Ask your, heart, Sir, whether he ever gave you just cause to?—Cause, replied he, see the condition to which I am reduced, Madam, and then ask your
own-heart
the question.—Ah, Sir John, Sir John! Does yours then acquit you? fie brother!—Do not give me reason to blush for the sentiments of one whom I wish to respect—you are, you must be conscious you have only yourself to blame for the situation you have been reduced to, was he to sacrifice
his
life in order to spare
that
of a person he well knew wished to rob him of it in the basest and most atrocious manner?—that of his greatest, nay, let me say, his
only
enemy.—I hoped, Sir John, your reflections, while languishing on a bed of sickness, while every moment the sear of death was before your eyes, would have taught you to see the nature of your sentiments in a proper light. I am sorry they have not produced so desirable an effect.
Is that letter from him I say? I want none of your ridiculous sermons,—pardon me if I do not think myself bound to answer any question asked in so rude, so unbrotherly a manner,—yet that I may set you an example of that behaviour you have too long been a stranger to.—I will condescend to tell you it is not—thank you sister for your kindness, only add to it by swearing you never will receive any from him, and you shall find I not only can, but will profit by it.—Excuse me, Sir, however, I may wish your reformation, I cannot possibly pay so great a price for it.
I now left him to cool at his leisure, and took up my pen as the likeliest means to cool myself,, for I confess I was too much warmed by the curious dialogue, I am determined if possible not to come to open war with him; I wish not to change my place of abode to leave him I mean, If I can any way avoid it; my late father's house is certainly the most eligible place I can inhabit while single,—had he been still spared to me, I should not have been subjected to the tyranny of this tormenting ill-tempered brother, his reign is, thank heaven! pretty nearly expired, that reflection enaables me to bear it with tolerable fortitude, and the moment it is, he may depend upon it I shall put myself under the protection of a more amiable lord and master—that is a point determinately fixed.
I am not quite clear whether I shall make any long stay with him at Bristol, I certainly shall not if I find he is likely to receive benefit from it, having seen him commodioufly settled there, shall return home, where I impatiently long to be, that I may put my thoughts into some kind of train, for they have really for some weeks past been in a state of confusion—adieu, my dear Lady Bell.
I will let you know where to direct to me next,
Your affectionate friend, CAROLINE WESTBURY.
LETTER the Twenty-first.
Miss ROCHLEY, TO Miss LENOX.
London.
MY Orlando has been ill, my dear Harriot, yes he has been ill, and his Isabella at a cruel distance from him, he tells me he is nearly recovered; but dare I flatter myself he does not deceive me
now,
as he has
kindly
done all the time he has been confined?—kindly the dear creatures intentions were, I well know; and yet I can hardly forgive the well meant desception, since I now reproach myself for having been so chearful, while he was perhaps in danger—he tells me he would still have kept me a stranger to it, could he have contrived any other reason to give me for his not returning immediately to England; but assures me, though not yet able to bear the fatigue of the journey, he is out of all possible danger, it seems he caught a fever from a gentleman, who lodged in the same house with him, who is now, however, perfectly well.
This person is a most agreeable young man, who is going on a tour to the South of France, and has almost tempted my brother to accompany him, if he should be prevailed upon, it will detain him from me about two months longer, and I rather think by what he says, he will comply, for I find he has got a farther leave of his absence from his worthy general, who recommends the plan, as it will not only serve to re-establish his health; but also give him an opportunity of seeing that part of the world, which is well worth his notice—all this convinces me the thing is resolved on, yet I am persuaded, were I to express a wish for his return, he would indulge me; but for this very reason, I have pressed the contrary, indeed I am of the general's opinion, and were I not, I love him too well, not to prefer his satisfaction to my own at any time.
Sir John, I hear, left London last week, and is in a fair way of recovery—that circumstance is so important, that I should have been the happiest creature in the world, had I not now a thousand apprehensions on my Orlando's account; however, if his next letter informs me he is actually set out on his tour, I shall be tolerably easy, as that will be a proof that
he is
better—for that letter, you may well believe I am impatient, beyond expression—and now a word or two of my new neighbour.
You'll please to recollect 'tis near a fortnight since he came here; I mention this, lest you should wonder to find he has contrived to be introduced to me, though Lord Templeton could not.—see what it is for a man to be passed the age of gallantry, they have many advantages—yet 'tis possible, those who are not, may not envy them.
It seems Mr. Douglas, for that is my new friends name, had heard me warbling to my harpsichord—of course asked Mrs. Bellmour who it was, to whom he was indebted for being so highly entertained, as he politely termed it—to him she thought no reserve necessary, but freely acquainted him with my situation—honestly owning to me, she thought a man of his age, a single man too, and immensely rich, might be a desirable friend, this it seems was her kind motive for so fully gratifying his curiosity—she wished to tell him my real name too, as he might possibly have known some of my family, but would not presume to do it without my permission.
I thanked her for her attention, saying she had acted with her usual propriety; that as to my name, it was of little consequence, since I had taken that of Beverly, I would even continue it till my brother's return.
Mrs. Bellmour, it seems, said so many fine things in my praise, that the old gentlemen expressed a violent desire to see me, that he might himself judge whether I deserved them—in short, she begged me to honor her with my company at tea, a few days after his arrival, and there I met him, not by surprise, I should tell you, for she had asked permission for that also—if he was charmed with me, I do assure you I was no less so with him—how so delightful a man could so long continue a batchelor, Heaven knows!—crossed in love, I suppose, Harriot—not that he is so
very, very
old, neither: I mention this, lest if we should make a match of it, and you should fancy him as old as the hills—he has seen a great deal of the world, has a fine understanding, great memory, and of course is a most entertaining companion; but music is his passion—
not love
—he is a great proficient on several instruments, his taste is excellent, and I am not without hopes, mine will be much improved under his instruction, for we are already come to that my dear—I have given him permission to pass an hour with me at any time, when not better engaged, which he as in duty bound, politely says can never happen, I now regret he is to make so short a stay in London—perhaps it may not be
quite
so short as Mrs. Bellmour fancies, I really shall be sorry when he leaves us, as he makes my time pass more pleasantly than it did before.
Mrs. Bellmour, who I believe is sincerely attached to me, has often regreted that lord Templeton had not an opportunity of being introduced to me, as he bears so excellent a character, and as she is certain I could not fail to be partial to him on a farther acquaintance, she wants to ask Mr. Douglas whether he knows him—I bid her have patience, time is a worker of miracles—his lordship is certainly uncommonly handsome I tell her; but it by no means follows, I should prefer him to all others, merely on that account, this she allows; but adds, he is universally reckoned the most amiable, and accomplished man in England, and is certain we are formed for each other—
if so,
I reply, we shall certainly manage the business without interference.
I find Harriot, his lordship has contrived to gain
her
good graces most completely, and I believe she now wishes I would be a little less—I will not say prudent—but in short, less reserved—she must, however excuse me, I cannot prevail upon myself to
stoop to conquer,
a proper pride, my dear, is necessary, to man and woman too.
I am now going to sing my old friend a song, who is this moment enquiring for me,
Adieu, yours. ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Twenty-second.
Same to the Same.
London.
THE plot begins to thicken, as somebody says, Harriot—Lord Templeton, has actually, by some means got acquainted with my worthy friend Mr. Douglas—'tis absolutely a fact my dear: here follows what passed between us this morning on the subject.
I had been playing a lesson to Mr. Douglas on the harpsichord, and afterwards, at his desire sung—in love to pine and languish, yet know my passion vain, &c.
I had no sooner finished, then he smiling, cried, and can you my dear young lady give so much sweet expression to those lines; yet be the cruel, the hard hearted creature I am told you are?—Harriot, I thought I should have expired with confusion—I expected the next moment to see him pop down on his knees at my feet—what else could I think after this speech, but a passionate declaration of love?—I now wished the instrument at Jerusalem, that had been the means of bringing me into such a scrape—he saw my embarrassment, and I have not a doubt, guessed my thoughts.
Pray said I, at last, who is the enemy, who gives me a character, I flatter myself, I so little deserve?—and have you then no idea, who it can be, replied he? is your conscience, my dear Miss Beverly
quite
at ease? yes, upon my word it is returned, I (gasping for breath)—and your heart too? both I assure you—why then, (cried he, affecting to look wondrous grave) poor Lord Templeton may as well put an end to his torments, by tucking himself up on the first friendly willow he can meet with.
Lord Templeton! exclaimed I with amazement, good Heavens! Mr. Douglas, what can you mean?—Oh, ho! cried he, I have found you out, my lovely young friend, have I? I thought I should bring you in guilty before I had done—upon my honor, (looking exceedingly silly I believe) I never saw his lordship but once in my life, he is absolutely a stranger to me.
I know it Miss Beverly, I know it, and that is the very identical cause of those torments I was talking of, and of which he so much complains—he too saw
you
once, and strange to tell has been blind, absolutely blind to the charms of every other woman, from that moment.
But how, in the name of fortune came you sir to know all this, supposing it true, which I have not the vanity to think credible?—why, you must know, madam, this same unfortunate lord, finding, I suppose, by some curious means or other, that I was so happy as to be an inmate under the same roof with you, has lately taken it into his head to be
particularly charmed
with the coffee-house I use, the next whim that struck his lordship, was to be
no less charmed with me
—that you know was the most natural thing in life, as he could not but discover I was the best companion imaginable, by my
very looks;
well, we all at once grew wonderfully intimate, I cannot say I am conscious of making any violent advances in order to obtain this honor; 'tis not
my
way, since a lord to me is pretty much upon a par with a commoner, if I find their understandings upon a par also—I own I have some oddities about me Miss Beverly, and that is one of them.
Some days after this friendship was struck up between us, which to be sure tickled my vanity not a little—he begun to
let it down
gradually, by convincing me
I
was not the only object of his attachment, for he asked if I had ever
een so fortunate as to see Miss Beverly, who lived at Mrs. Bellmour's?
Oh! ho! thought I—I now begin to see the
foundation on
which our great friendship is built, and a very pretty foundation it is—seen her my lord, yes, and heard her too, and what is more, have the vanity to imagine she does not behold
me with indifference
—not behold you with indifference, (Sir, cried his lordship, in the finest agitation you can conceive)—and pray, my lord interrupting him, is that so ve
extraordinary,
am I then so
gusting
an object? if so,
came your lordship to be so
taken
with me? continued I, (with an expressive smile)—he now seemed at a loss to know whether I was in jest or earnest, which was exactly my intention.
Have you then, really—Sir, cried he, at last, any serious thoughts of Miss Beverly?—many very
serious
ones I give you my honor—and she does not behold you with
indifference?
—I have reason to think she does not—then I am the most wretched of men! exclaimed his lordship.—Hey day! why, pray my lord, what has Miss Beverly's honoring me with her esteem to do with your happiness or misery?—Mr. Douglas, said he, I adore her!—very well my lord, I think you cannot give a greater proof of your judgment, but this by no means explains to me why you are therefore to pronounce yourself the most
wretched of men
—Ah, Sir▪ have you not confessed to me, the lovely creature does not behold you with indifference?—why▪ what an unconscionable being, yo
acknowledge yourself, my lord▪ granting you do
adore
her—nay granting she too
adored
you, is
to look with an eye of indifferenc
on every other mortal? I estee
her greatly, and know her to be highly accomplished, to possess an uncommonly fine understanding; all this from personal knowledge, I can justify—more in her favour, were it necessary, I have heard from one, who is still better acquainted with her: I have conceived a very sincere regard for her, and I will add, my lord, were I twenty years younger, I should be tempted to
adore
her too, would you not, after this, reckon her an ungrateful gypsey, were she to behold me with
indifference?
Ah! my dear Sir! my dear Mr. Douglas! (taking my hand—yours Miss Beverly, not being within his reach)—can you forgive my petulance!—I confess you alarmed me—greatly alarmed me—I feared—I was a rival, said I, interrupting him—I thank you for the compliment, my lord, 'tis a very flattering one; but suppose I had been weak enough to entertain views of that nature, I do not think it need have thrown your lordship into despair, Miss Beverly has taste and discernment—he bowed—and now added I, suppose we begin to understand each other; you say, you love this amiable girl to adoration, if I mistake not, and I have a very great friendship and esteem for her—thus stands the case, what comes next—shall I be sincere? cried he—O! by all means my lord—then I will freely confess, I hoped it might be possible through your kind interposition, for me to be introduced to her; I know you to be a man of honor, and trust the world does me the justice to think me so—I have made every possible attempt to obtain that happiness; but hitherto every effort has been ineffectual.
Miss Beverly, (for proper reasons, I make not a doubt) lives retired, I have not, till I had the good fortune to meet with you, been able to find any person of her acquaintance.—Mrs. Bellmour has been deaf to all my solicitations, and miserable as it has made me, I esteem her the more for it; now my dear Sir, if you on a farther knowledge of my character, can procure me this honor, I shall look upon it as the greatest obligation you can possibly confer—my happiness, my peace of mind depend upon your indulging me in my request.
Now Miss Beverly, said Mr. Douglas, I have done—thus much, this insinuating
friend
of mine prevailed upon me to promise, I complied with less reluctance; because I have, to tell you the truth, conceived a very good opinion of him, though that alone would not have sufficed; one may be deceived by appearances, but I have made it my particular business to know his character from others, and find it all I could wish.
What can I say Sir? replied I, his Lordship certainly does me a great deal of honor, but situated as I am at present, I cannot according to my ideas of rectitude think of receiving his visits—I cannot indeed, —you have my permission, Sir, to tell him I think myself honored by his attention; but till my brother's return must decline seeing him.
Nay, nay, if you go on at that rate I shall be in love with you myself, and there will be an end of his lordship's hopes at once.—What?—you pretend to tell me you have not sixpence in the world, yet, scruple to break through the forms of decorum, at the hazard of losing the affection of a man, who is dying to make you mistress of such a fortune as might amply gratify the ambition of any woman in England. Look'e Miss Beverly, do not thus tempt an old fellow to play the fool.—I tell you I am determined to withstand all your allurements, I will
not
fall in love with you, that's positive, so you may as well give up all hopes of it.
Is he not a delightful old man, Harriot? I vow I could find in my heart to be sorry for the resolution he with so much humor says he has formed,—I am to tell him then continued he, you will nor permit me to introduce him?—if you will do me that favour, my dear Sir, I shall think myself infinitely obliged to you—'tis more than his lordship will do, however, you shall be obeyed;
And pray, Sir, give him to understand I am not as he may perhaps fancy, a woman offortune. I wish not to deceive him, this information may possibly prove as effectual a remedy as the lover's leap.—I shall tell him no such thing, for you know nothing of the matter; how should
you
know what you are worth? Nay, my dear Sir,—and nay, my dear Madam,—I have lived longer in the world than you, and could tell you a thousand stranger things than that—but adieu.—I am going to the coffee-house, so saying, he left me delighted with his agreeable manner; but utterly at a loss to comprehend his last speech.
Mr. Douglas had no sooner left me than I sat down to give you these particulars:—My mind is now more at ease, so I hope will his lordships, and that he will cease all farther importunity,—I would not for worlds have admitted his visits, situated as I at present am, under a feigned name, and my dear protector absent.—Ah! I could not possibly think of it, yet I will not deny that I am rather pleased to find he is so very serious in the business.—Should his mind prove as engaging as his person, I shall have some cause to be vain of my conquest; yet, who can say when he has gained the point, he seems so extremely solicitous about, I mean when he is better acquainted with me, that he has formed an idea which I shall by no means answer.—Depend upon it his imagination has given me more perfections than happen to fall to my share, I do not mean by this to depreciate those I really do possess neither, I have too much vanity not to have a tolerable opinion of them; but a man so prodigiously in love as he would persuade me he is, must fancy the object of it a goddess at least,—farewell. I am now mistress of a new subject for your amusement you see, as well as for my own; to say truth, it is full time my epistles should be embellished by a dash of love.
Yours, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Twenty-third.
Miss ROCHLEY, TO Miss LENOX.
London.
DO you know Harriot, I have met with the greatest shock since my last that ever I received in my life? or hope ever shall again. I am still so fluttered by it, though it happened yesterday, that I can hardly guide my pen—it has absolutely affected my nerves—no, never was so
insolent,
so despicable a creature.
I was sitting in my room yesterday morning, enjoying a letter I had just received from my dear Orlando (who by the way is perfectly recovered, and set off on the tour I mentioned,) when my door opened, and without ceremony in flounced—guess who?—only Lady Beningfield; I rose from my seat at her entrance, not at that instant recollecting her, and was of course, though surprised to see a stranger, going to receive her politely, but her behaviour soon brought her to my remembrance, and also accounted for the
honor
she did me, seeing plainly she came with no friendly design, I very composedly resumed my seat, leaving her ladyship to find one for herself, in case she chose to follow my example.—
This I saw piqued her most horridly; fine airs, Miss you give yourself upon my word, methinks you might treat a person of my rank (and she bridled) with a little more ceremony—had your rank been properly announced to me, before you thought fit thus to intrude yourself into my apartment, perhaps I should have paid more attention to it; though your behaviour would soon have destroyed any degree of respect
that
rank might have inspired,—insolent, but 'tis no wonder your silly head should be turned—she was so violently agitated that she could not proceed; I on the contrary felt so much contempt for her, that I was more composed then, than I am now while giving you an account of it.—Pray Madam, may I presume to ask, said I, how I came to be honored with your very agreeable company? I really have not the happiness of being in the least acquainted with you, and consequently am rather at a loss
Acquainted
with me! cried she with a sneer, no, really,
my
acquaintance I would have you to know are in a very different line of life—and to make a little variety I presume Madam, you wish to add me to the number.—Do not attempt to be witty child, I shall be sick of it—I should be sorry for that, said I, since your being ill might be a means to prolong your visit.—Don't be impertinent young woman, that may be still worse. Suppose then, and [by this time Harriot, I had taken up a purse I am netting, and began to work] suppose then we wave all farther ceremony, Madam, and come to the point,—once more permit me to ask what has procured me the honor of this visit?
Why, then without
farther ceremony Miss,
I should be glad to know what footing you are upon with Lord Templeton? I am not to learn that he has taken some pains to make you believe a thousand most absurd and ridiculous things; I have very particular reasons for making this enquiry; you cannot surely be such a fool as to fancy he has any thoughts of marrying you—that is out of the question: now had you been wise enough to have treated me with that deference I have a right to, I meant to have made you a very friendly offer; first, however, let me know what it is you really expect from him.
Allow me first, said I, with astonishing calmness, to tell you madam what I expect from
you
(rising and going to the door) which is, that you will be kind enough to find your way down stairs, as you found the way up.
I really thought the creature would have beat me, Harriot—how dare you, cried she (choking with rage) presume to treat a person of my quality with this unheard of insolence?
Because, returned I, that
feather quality
on which
you
very justly set so high a value, conscious you have nothing else to boast of,
I
pay no sort of regard to, when possessed by a being, I have reason to look down upon with contempt.
So saying, I very quietly walked into the next room, turned the key of the door, lest she should think proper to follow me, and left her to her own meditations—she did indeed attempt it, but finding I had put it out of her power, I heard her march down stairs, muttering, I know not what as she went.
Now my dear Harriot, what say you to this pleasant adventure? I presume the friendly offer she kindly meant to make me, was the dose of poison you once mentioned—shall I confess, that I no sooner heard the creatures carriage drive from the door, than I was simple enough to burst into tears?—simple I say, since so despicable a being was certainly beneath my notice; but though pride kept up my spirits while she was present, they intirely forsook me, when left to reflect on the mortifying scene.
I found myself relieved by them however, and as soon as my eyes were fit to be seen, I rung for my maid, desiring she would acquaint Mrs. Bellmour, I wished to see her—she returned, telling me, she had been out all the morning.
I now sent her to ask, who had shewn Lady Beningfield up stairs, and to my astonishment, found no mortal below, knew she had been with me till they saw her coming down; she had asked, indeed, if I was at home, on her first entering the house, but said no more about it, and when they would have attended her to the door, she would not permit any one to take that trouble; saying, her servant was waiting, shut the parlour door, and instead of going out, as they supposed—she slipped up stairs.
This is the account the young woman gave my Sally—I took no farther notice of it to any of them, but mentioned what had passed to Mrs. Bellmour, when she returned, who was shocked beyond expression, declaring she should never set her foot in her doors again, let what would be the consequence—to this I objected, as she was so good a customer—but in vain—she vowed, she never with her consent should gain admittance.
I am really astonished how I had courage to bear her insolence with so much calmness; but rejoice most truly, that I had so much command of myself, as I certainly mortified her, even more than she mortified me—conscious of my innocence, it was but a momentary pain, while her ladyship must be sensible she had rendered herself an object of contempt, even in her own eyes.
I long much to know, whether lord Templeton has heard of it—ten to one, if the foolish, insignificant woman has prudence enough to conceal the story, though it must set her in so despicable a point of view.
If they have differed (which I shrewdly suspect, or why should she have acted in that absurd manner?) I make no doubt she will inform him, in order to distract him, which it cannot, I think fail to do, if he has any sentimentals of delicacy.
I have desired Mrs. Bellmour to conceal the affair from my worthy friend Mr. Douglas, it hurts my pride, my feelings▪ Harriot, though I have certainly no cause to blush, whatever her ladyship may have; but as he is now my lords
confident,
he may chance to hear the story from him.
This, my dear Harriot, is the first occasion on which I have
severely felt
the change in my situation—but for that change, this could not have happened—I trust and hope it will be also the last.
Adieu, yours, ever, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Twenty-fourth.
Same to the Same.
London.
IT is, as I guessed, Harriot—my lord is distracted at what has happened—I have had the whole history from Mr. Douglas, and a letter on the subject from his lordship, which I was compelled to receive contrary to my inclinations; but what could I do? my worthy friend (for such I really believe he is) was rather hurt at my attempting to decline it, as it was certainly condemning
him
for consenting to convey it to me—I saw he was chagrined, and therefore, though unwillingly, took it from him; I will inclose a copy for your perusal.
I fear this may bring on a correspondence, which I really wished exceedingly to avoid till my brother's return, his dear presence would have saved me from all this uneasiness—but there's no help for it, I must be doubly watchful over my conduct, that's all I can now do.
Mr. Douglas, who has seriously conceived a real friendship, for his lordship declares, he is the most accomplished, the most engaging young man he ever met with, gave me the following particulars of the affair yesterday.
Their meetings are no longer confined to the coffee-house, on the contrary, they are seldom asunder; he called upon his lordship, it seems, in the morning, and to his astonishment found him almost frantic—for Heaven's sake! cried he, what has thus disturbed you my lord.
My dear friend, replied his lordship, you see before you the most wretched of men—
what again
my Lord—Oh! spare your railery, I am really miserable beyond expression; have you then heard nothing, has the charming Miss Beverly concealed from
you
the unpardonable, the cruel insult she has meet with on my account?—Oh! Mr. Douglas, she never,
never
can forgive it!—'tis impossible, every hope, every glimmering of hope is now lost to me for ever!—prithee explain your self, said my good friend, in the name of fortune, what have you done, how have you insulted, how been guilty of this
unpardonable
offence?
I!
exclaimed his lordship—
I
insult the most lovely of women!—Ah! Heaven forbid!—why then all this distraction, if 'tis not you?—I tell you I am the fatal cause, and is not that to be completely wretched?
Not quite replied Mr. Douglas, in his dry way—your lordship may be the
innocent
cause, and surely that alters the case, but come—let me hear the whole story, that I may be the better able to judge, whether 'tis time for you to hang or drown yourself.
Allow me Harriot to make this part of the history as short as I can, because you already know the substance of it, I mean her ladyship's passion for Lord Templeton—suspecting from the first time of his seeing me, that I had made an impression on a heart she wished to have wholly to herself, she had him watched, and soon learned he made frequent visits to Mrs. Bellmour—at first she rallied him; but finding this had no effect, she called him
false, perfidious
and
ungrateful,
in fine, ranted like any tragedy queen—he pleaded not guily—
she
finding no better might be pleaded the
violence of her love,
very pleasant that Harriot—he returned a most graceful bow—what could a man do more?
At last she insisted he should swear her suspicions were without foundation—he protested he was not sufficiently acquainted with either the nature or extent of her suspicions, and begged to decline obliging her—she raved—he looked, I suppose as every man must naturally do, who finds a woman making love to
him,
instead of his making love to her—that is to say rather aukward—finding she could not move his flinty heart, she vowed she would go in person to the creature who had robbed her of it, and know from herself what sooting we were upon.
This threat, which he well knew she was capable of putting into execution, alarmed him;—he swore to expose her conduct to the whole world, if she presumed to entertain an idea of that horrid nature.—She valued not the world, was her reply, having lost all she held dear in it:—he now condescended to sooth, to intreat; but this exasperated her the more, sensible it was for my sake, not her own.
They parted with mutual disgust, he still flattering himself she would not stoop to such meanness—but to his utter confusion, she informed him of what she had done, glorying in the distress she had caused, and vowing it should not be the last.
And now, said his lordship, (having ended his story) What have I to hope?—Why, for the felicity of throwing yourself at Miss Beverly's feet, my lord, cried Mr. Douglas, the very first opportunity, and making your peace the best way you can.—Were she indeed a being cast in the same mould with the
gentle creature
we have been talking of, I should advise you to take a
cordial drop,
by way of saving her the trouble of administering it, which she certainly, in that case, would contrive to do; but as she is not, I recommend the first plan as the most agreeable.
Ah!—cried my lord—would to heaven I durst flatter myself with the hopes that she would condescend to hear my defence▪ but if even you, my dear Sir, could not prevail upon her to admit me to her presence, before this cursed affair, how can I now expect it?—impossible!—then after a pause, he added—perhaps, Mr. Douglas, you may have influence enough with the dear and justly incensed angel to persuade her to read a letter from me, I cannot exist unless I have an opportunity of some kind or other to apologize for what has happened.
This,
said my friend, I agreed to attempt.
He instantly sat down, and wrote the epistle I mentioned having been in a manner compelled to take Harriot—and which I will now transcribe for your perusal, as I promised, having thus told you the substance of what passed between Mr. Douglas and me on the occasion, as well as his dialogue with my lord.
Miss BEVERLEY.
Madam,
YOUR worthy friend, Mr. Douglas, will, I am persuaded, do me the justice to inform you he has just left me the most unhappy of men—and such I must continue, unless Miss Beverly will be equally just, by believing I would without hesitation have forfeited my life, could I thereby have saved her from the insult—the base, the unparalelled insult, to my utter confusion, I understand she has received, from a being who is not only a disgrace to her sex, but to humanity.
Shocked as my feelings must have been when informed of the distracting circumstance, supposing
I
had been no way instrumental to it, think what I must suffer, while conscious I am the unfortunate cause of the horrid event—to form an idea of my torture at this moment, is not in nature; those only who love, who revere your amiable character as I do, can possibly conceive it;—pardon me, Miss Beverly, for daring at this time to mention a passion, which, though fervent as it is respectful, cannot, I fear, but be deemed presumptuous, after what has happened. I know not what I write—my mind is in a state of absolute distraction; the thought of what a heart delicate as yours must have suffered from the outrageous behaviour of that wicked woman, is daggers to mine.—Oh, madam, on my knees let me implore you to pity me, to relieve my agonized mind, by saying you hold
me
guiltless—heaven is my witness! there is nothing in the power of man, I would not do, or suffer, to convince you with how much respect and esteem I am Miss Beverly's most devoted, though truly wretched,
TEMPLETON.
What could I say to this, Harriot? you will, I imagine, allow, since I had been spite of myself, prevailed upon to read it, some sort of answer was unavoidably necessary—I accordingly sat down, and wrote as follows:—
I have, indeed, been exceedingly mortified my lord, but confess I have pride enough to look down with contempt on a woman, who could so far forget herself, as to descend to such meaness—I am perfectly convinced your lordship has nothing to reproach yourself with, in regard to what has happened, you tell me, my lord, this assurance is necessary to your peace, I send it with pleasure, as I think I cannot in justice do less,
And am your lordships, most obedient, ISABELLA BEVERLEY.
Having desired Mr. Douglas's opinion of it; who, smiling, said, it was
cool
enough to freeze the flame I had kindled in his lordship's bosom, I sealed and begged he would do me the favour to deliver it.—so far am I, however, Harriot; from thinking it
quite
so cool as it ought to have been, that I have ever since wished I had blotted out the word
pleasure.
This, you will perhaps say, is being wonderfully prudish—I own it would so, were I not circumstanced as I at present am. His lordship, an absolute stranger to me, Mr. Douglas, almost as much so, though we have certainly conceived a good opinion of each other; yet, who can say I may not be deceived, even in him—sorry indeed, should I be at so mortifying a discovery; but all this makes me more cautious then I should otherwise be.
Apppearances, in reality, are rather against
me
too—a young, and tolerable handsome woman, in lodgings by herself, my family unknown—no acquaintance, and averse from making any—'tis certainly, rather misterious, and that can never be an advantage to any one, heartily sick I am of it, I do assure you, particularly since that vile creature has given me such horrid proofs, that
appearances,
as I was saying, are indeed against me, I am impatient beyond expression for my brothers return, that I may resume my own name—I now regret I was ever called by any other—yet, the same thing might have happened had I not.
I think I ought to write to him, but am fearful of the consequences, however, I will consider of it, for the present my dear girl, I must bid you adieu,
Believe me, ever yours, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Twenty-fifth.
Miss BROWN TO Lord TEMPLETON.
My Lord,
London.
THE information I am going to give your lordship; will, I trust, be deemed a sufficient apology for this trouble—it pains me exceedingly to confess, I am, and have been a daily witness to the most wicked and shameful plot carried on against your lordship, that ever was invented, tho' not an accomplice, as this letter, I hope, will serve to convince you.
I live with Mrs. Bellmour, my lord, your attachment to Miss Beverley (as she is called) is no secret to any one in the family, 'tis a circumstance too flattering to be concealed—it astonishes me, indeed, that the misterious conduct, they have thought proper to observe, does not alarm your lordship; they, however, find it answers their villanous purpose▪ but forgive these reflections, they are foreign to what I have to relate.
Know then, my lord, that this Miss Beverly is no other than a natural daughter of Mrs Bellmours; well might she say she had the charge of her education; alas! she has educated her for the most infamous purposes; beautiful and accomplished, she is, as every one must allow—Mr. Douglas, her
pretended friend
is upon the most intimate footing with her—I blush to write it; but her base, her most worthless mother sacrificed her to him, when scarce fifteen—with him, she has lived ever since—I believe, indeed, he has nothing to reproach her with, in regard to her conduct from that time; but he has now views of another nature, and of course finds Miss Bellmour, (for that is her real name) an obstacle to them.
At the time your lordship was so much struck with her appearance on seeing her here, her wretched mother was actually in treaty with a man of fortune, who offered to grant her a settlement for life, as his mistress—the affair was on the point of being concluded, and certainly would before this time, had not your lordship given hopes that you might absolutely, if things were properly managed, be induced to make her your wife—the great difficulty now was, what account to give of her family and connections, which they naturally imagined, would of course be enquired into by your lordship—this was a perplexity not easily got over—they, therefore, determined to adopt the plan they have since so successfully followed.—that is, to acknowledge, there was a mistery in her situation, which she was not yet at liberty to explain.
They mentioned an absent relation, at whose return all would be cleared up—but the truth is, my Lord, they hoped to exhaust your patience, for well do they know no such being exists, though I make no doubt, they could easily produce a person to assume that character, could it answer any good purpose; they hoped, I say your lordship's passion, would at last so far blind you, as to induce you to make honorable proposals, rather than continue to be thus denied permission to visit her.
Can any thing in life, my lord, be more artful?—I confess it was myself; who suffered Lady Beningfield to go up to her apartment, knowing Mr. Douglas was then
with her,
and easily hoping her ladyship might have proof sufficient to have left her no doubt of those suspicions she at present entertains of the duplicity of her character; though she mistakes the object, Miss Beverly had however, I found contrived to conceal him in a closet time enough to prevent so important a discovery.
When I wished her ladyship to be fully convinced. I confess it was not from any degree of partiality I felt for her; but concluded your lordship would of course be informed of it; which knowing your worth and amiable character I most sincerely desired.
Indeed, had my wishes been gratified, and she had given your lordship an account of the discovery; 'tis possible it might, coming from
her,
have appeared the effects of jealousy, and not have gained credit: I am no stranger my lord to Lady Beningfield's motives, for her curiosity, pardon me for taking the liberty to mention this circumstance, it leads to another—which is this!
Finding all her own hopes of gaining your lordship's hand at an end, she now from the most implacable hatred and revenge would give worlds, that you may be drawn in, to marry this beautiful; but unfortunate girl—I should not be surprised, were her ladyship artful enough to attempt, even to persuade you to it; for she has had power sufficient by the help of gold, to learn the truth of Miss Beverly's story from Bellmour, the latter from the tenor of her conservation, found letting her into the secret, would rather promote than frustrate her scandalous design, and when fully informed, she declared, as I mentioned above, nothing on earth would give her so much pleasure as to see your lordship so
gloriously taken in,
that was her very expression.
Beware then my lord of the whole set, 'tis true, were Lady Beningfield to appear an advocate now, for a match, she so lately dreaded as the greatest of all evils, you might naturally suspect her sincerity; yet, who can say, how much an ingenuous, a generous mind like your lordships (particularly when urged to what at present is so consonant to your inclinations) might be induced to credit?
That
I
my lord can have no interested motives for what I write, I need hardly mention—on the contrary, were it known by any of the family, I had thus betrayed them, I know not, if even my life would be in safety—but I have so much confidence in your lordship's honor, and am so shocked at the horrible contrivance that I venture it, without hesitation.
Make what use you please my lord of this letter, only for the sake of the very important intelligence it contains, conceal the name of the writer, who now begs leave to subscribe herself,
Your lordship's most obedient and very humble servant, JANE BROWN.
LETTER the Twenty-six.
Lord TEMPLETON, TO Colonel ROCHLEY.
London.
WHAT can tempt you thus to prolong your stay, my dear Rochley? after my repeatedly informing you, you have nothing farther to apprehend on Sir John Westbury's account, the fellow is quite recovered, and ready for another tilting about whenever you will be kind enough to put yourself
unarmed
in his way again, have you no compassion for the divine Caroline? fie upon you Orlando! I believed you a man of more gallantry than to absent yourself one moment longer than was necessary for
your
safety and her happiness of course.
Do prithee wheel about to the right, and march home as fast as you can—I have such a story to treat you with—but I bar all jokes upon the subject mind that or I am dumb.
I have had such an escape—no, if I live to the age of, what's his name in the bible—I shall not have half time enough to be sufficiently thankful.
Would you believe it? I had absolutely brought myself to think seriously of making an offer of marriage to the Dulcinea I have so heriocally raved about to you for some time past, true upon my honor, finding no possibility to storm her castle—or rather I should say to gain admission without storming it; I had fully determined, to take her
for better for worse
—her old friend—ah curse him!—had so wrought on my passions by his flaming account of her
mental
perfections (those of her person I had seen and admired to my cost) that I actually authorised him to assure her, I wished for nothing so ardently, as to make her honorably mine, and implored him to prevail on her, to accept my offered hand.
Yes, Rochley, thus far had my infatuation for the bewitching the enchanting girl, seduced me from the paths of common sense, when behold my guardian angel inspired one of the infernal pack with sentiments of pity for the scrape I was in, she, for which I am certainly bound to pray for her every day of my life, sent me a full and particular account of the
birth, parentage, life, character,
and
behaviour,
of my fair (till then unknown) enslaver.—Ah! "what a falling off was there?" it was a last dying speech to all my hopes of happiness.
All my comfort is, I was wise enough to conceal her name and place of abode even from you. I will not take upon me more merit than I am entitled to however, on that account, since the truth is, I was so wholly engrossed by describing the angel, that those unimportant matters never occured to me, but
now
my not having done it, does with no small satisfaction, since had you known one, or either of those particulars, you might possibly have still more reason to laugh at me, by finding I had been sighing for a dear creature, who had not let
you sigh in vain.
In short, Rochley, I understand she is neither more nor less at this precious moment, than mistress of that old fellow, who has taken such pains to ensnare me.
This I fortunately learned yesterday from one who resides in the same house, and who knows the whole rise and progress of their infamous intrigue.
That I am horridly mortified I need not tell you, yet would you believe it? I am still fool enough to love the dear charming girl, in spite of my better judgment. 'Tis absolutely incomprehensible to me, how a passion, violent as this that consumes me, could be excited by such transient views, as merely seeing her twice at her window, and once, when by accident I went there with that
friend,
Lady Beningfield, and your Caroline, the latter was no less struck with the elegance of her figure than myself, the former affected to have entirely overlooked her, though she has since given too convincing proofs of the falsity of that assertion—but to this there hangs a tale, which as things are turned out, I cannot take the trouble of recounting.
I was driven in my first transports of rage, almost to distraction, and was tempted to commit some desperate act of violence—but that I fortunately recollected the whole crew of them as unworthy my revenge, or rather fear; a lurking partiality for the object of my passion checked my resentment.
I determined therefore to leave them to enjoy the disappointment, to set off instantly for the country, and there endeavour to forget the transcendant charms of my perfidious fair one, who, I am still credulous enough to believe is more to be pitied than blamed.
For this weakness you, Rochley, will probably condemn me—but had you seen her, yes, had you seen the fascinating charmer, you too must have adored her as I did!—did, do I say? the same infatuation still persues me, and pleads but too strongly in her favor, in spite of the dreadful intelligence, I have received.
That appearances are against her, I must allow—strongly against her—yet she may,—but what a folly is this?—Is there a simple doubt remaining?—no, Orlando, no!—Let me fly then—I dare not longer trust my self to write on the subject;—farewel, my chaise is ordered, my only safety is in flight.
Let me intreat you Rochley, to return without farther delay to England—come and introduce me to your lovely sister. I have often wished to get a sight of her, having heard she is the most lovely of her sex. Come and introduce me to her; that in contemplating her perfections I may forget those of a creature who had she been as virtuous, must I think in beauty equaled even Miss Rochley.
Yours ever, most sincerely, TEMPLETON.
LETTER the Twenty-seventh.
Miss ROCHLEY, TO Miss LENOX.
London.
I AM all astonishment my dear! Never was there so extraordinary an affair!—every thing that has past since my Orlando left me appears a dream, I really dare hardly trust my senses.
I have told you Harriot, repeatedly told you,
if I mistake not,
the unremitted endeavours Lord Templeton made to prevail upon me to admit his visits. I have told you I think how very earnest he was to persuade me he had conceived the most violent passion for me, and honorable as violent—all this you have heard, but what I am now going to tell you, will I fancy surprise you infinitely more.
Mr. Douglas delivered the few lines I sent him—his lordship chose to find more
beauties
than there were
letters
in the whole performance, he was in raptures,—transported with my amiable condescension, adored me more if possible than ever for my candor—in short, set a far greater value on the favour than it was worth, and swore he could not exist unless I would permit him to thank me in person, and at the same time to offer me his hand and heart, begging Mr. Douglas would do all in his power to procure him this blessing.
All this the worthy man repeated to me almost as much transported with joy as his lordship, and no less earnest with me to grant his request.
Fully persuaded they were both sincere in their professions, I actually found myself beginning to waver in my resolution of waiting for my dear brothers return—so perpetually importuned, what could I do?—at last, I told Mr. Douglas, I would take a day or two to consider the propriety of what he asked this was giving hopes, and with these hopes, he flew to my lord, who was again in raptures.
During my deliberation, my good old friend had been so much engaged in the city, that I had scarce seen him, by the way I am sorry to tell you he talks of leaving London soon, and kindly declares nothing but the interest he takes in my affairs could have detained him here so long.
For two or three days, I say, I scarcely saw him—when yesterday in his way from the city, he called on his lordship, in order, as he drolely said, to enquire how his patience held out; but guess, if you can, Harriot, of his consternation, when informed by the porter, his lordship had left London the day before, ordering him to acquaint any person who might call for him, that he should not return for several months, perhaps not then, as he had some thoughts of going abroad.
Poor Mr. Douglas was quite thunderstruck, and for some time could not believe he understood what the man said—however, after his repeating it many times he was compelled, though much against his inclination to credit the intelligence.
Never shall I forget the various passions displayed on his expressive, his benevolent countenance when giving me this information—rage—contempt, and cruel disappointment were strongly pictured in every feature.
How I looked at that embarrassing moment, Heaven only knows! for Mr. Douglas was too violently agitated himself to make any remarks; but my feelings were hurt beyond all conception—I felt a glow of pride and indignation on my cheek—aud could not articulate a syllable, might I have had the universe, yet wished to say something in order to persuade him; I was not so much disconcerted, as his honest worthy heart apprehended.
At length, after various essays for utterance? why, my dear Sir, are you thus uneasy? believe me, I am not; consider, I had in fact, very little knowledge of his lordship, consequently could be no way attached to him; have I not great reason to be thankful, this is the case? I might, perhaps, had I been better acquainted with him, have conceived a partiality, then indeed this unaccountable conduct might have given me some pain, but as it is—what have I to regret?
Talk not so calmly, replied he with energy; do not for the first time, since I knew you attempt to play the hypocrite! speak of him, as he deserves! execrate his very name, as I do from my soul! he is a vilain!—yes, I say a vilain!—none, but a being, who justly merits that harsh appellation, could have behaved in so base, so dastardly a manner; but by Heavens! if ever I meet him, old as I am, I will call him to a strict account, he has not only grossly insulted the most deserving of her sex, but me also;—and dearly shall he pay for it, if ever I am so fortunate, as to set eyes on him again.
Yes, my good, my dear child; he shall know that, I am not a man to be affronted with impunity.
Though I just now blamed your prudent, your calm behaviour, be assured, I honor you for it, 'tis spirited, 'tis noble, and like every other part of your conduct, thank Heaven! you are not attached to so worthless a wretch—no Miss Beverly, I trust a better fate awaits you—I did mean, as I told you to leave town in a few days, but no business shall now oblige me to quit you.
I will stay, at least, till your brother returns, and will before I part from you, see you once more, safely under his protection, and trust he will never again leave so precious a charge to the mercy of strangers.
I mean not to reflect on your friend Mrs. Bellmour. I believe she is a worthy well meaning woman; she could neither foresee, nor have prevented what has happened—but let us forget it.
Come try, if you can so far command yourself as to sing me a song; go to your harpsichord, let it be something chearful to raise our spiris.
I own, Harriot, I thought this request rather
mal a propos;
but, convinced he meant it well, complied, though I certainly did not either play or sing
better
than usual—he soon after left me, charging me to think of the fellow as he deserved, were it possible, added he, I would order you not to think of him at all.
This injunction, had he given it, you may believe I could not easily have obeyed.
Now tell me, my dear, what you think of this adventure? for my own part I can make nothing of it, 'tis as I said before, absolutely incomprehensible, have I not infinite reason as I have also before said to be thankful, he had not gained that place in my affections he pretended to be so anxious to obtain?—good Heavens! what cause should I have had to reproach myself, had I been weak enough to have admitted his visits—I shudder at the very idea of it, since 'tis now evident in spite of all his professions of honor and respect, his views were of a very different nature, it must be so—no other way can I account for his conduct—but being by mine at last persuaded, he could not hope to succeed, he thought it needless to throw any more time away upon me.
Does not this, Harriot, appear the most probable conjecture one can form?—yet, but a few days before, how very different did his sentiments seem to be, what agonies did he express for the insult I had met with from that vile Lady Beningfield—in short, I can only repeat 'tis all a mistery, all wholly incomprehensible.
Another circumstance gives me on reflection much pleasure, I mean my never having given a hint to my Orlando of my
imaginary
conquest—I thought it would have an appearance of vanity to tell him of it; and that it would be time enough, should any thing really come of it: how lucky was this, my dear Harriot, on two accounts.
First, because I am thereby spared the mortification of his knowing I have been thus strangly treated; and in the second, because, had he known it, and by whom, how very fatal might have been the consequences, for that he would not have let the matter pass without resenting it you well know.
There is, you see no situation so bad, as to be void of all consolation—this
I
lo
k upon as a reward for my prudent conduct, don't you think, Harriot, I have a right to draw this flattering conclusion from those circumstances?
It is not unnatural to suppose you will now ask what my
heart
says to this affair?—why, my dear I have the pleasure to assure you it behaves very well on the occasion, I will confess it had formed a few mighty pleasant plans of future felicity, in which Lord Templeton had a share; but it was on a supposition, that he was all the world is pleased to represent him, that is to say the most amiable and worthy of men—that he is the most elegant in point of person, there are few I fancy can deny, and were one to judge from the expression of his countenance, one would really be much inclined to believe the character he has acquired is no more than he justly deserves—but it has ever been a maxim with the
very
wise not to trust to appearances—I have pretty substantial reason, I think Harriot, for adopting it.
All I can say, in short is, had he really been, what we were simple enough to believe him, I should have been very well pleased with my conquest, as it is, I am truly thankful he failed in
quite compleating his.
Adieu my dear Harriot, I am now going to press my Orlando's return, indeed the time he proposed being in England, draws very near—I can not express half the gratitude I owe to the worthy, the kind Mr. Douglas; but you I am sure will do me the justice to believe I am deeply impressed by a sense of the many obligations he has confered upon me, of his friendship I can have no doubt—your's also, I have the happiness to rejoice in,
And am your affectionate, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Twenty-eighth.
Same to the Same.
London.
IF my last astonished you, my dearest Harriot, I think I may venture to pronounce this will do it still more. I am certainly born to meet with very extraordinary adventures, if one may call them such; and really, though that has rather too much of the romantic in it, I know not what other appellation to give them.
Now prepare, my dear girl, to be delighted, prepare your most eloquent congratulations for your Isabella—all her misfortunes are now I trust at an end—at least, from this happy moment, she may look forward with a certainty of not being again insulted on account of her depressed circumstances. I have such news, my dear, to tell you, as will put you out of your
little wits
with joy, this you know is ever your lively expression on any particularly happy event.
I wrote, as I told you I intended, to my Orlando, begging he would hasten his return—some time after Mr. Douglas and I were sitting together talking over the affair of Lord Templeton, and forming a thousand fruitless conjectures concerning his unaccountable behaviour, when a post-chaise drove to the door.—I flew to the window, my heart telling me it was my Orlando. It was, Harriot! it was himself!—in a moment I found myself pressed to his affectionate bosom, and such was my transport, I had very near fainted; however, I luckily did not.
My first agitation a little subsided, I recollected my good Mr. Douglas, who stood gazing on us with the utmost pleasure; taking my darling brother's hand, I led him to him.—Orlando, said I, let me introduce you to this gentleman; much are you indebted to him, I do assure you, for the constant attention and friendship he has shewn your poor Isabella; he has, during your absence, been my guardian, my generous protector.
They embraced each other with great cordiality, my brother expressing his acknowledgments of my good friend's kindness in the most grateful and pleasing manner.—The worthy man would now have left us, but we begged he would do us the favour to stay and partake of our satisfaction. He then took his seat, and was diverted with the thousand questions I asked my dear brother, so rapidly as to put it out of his power to answer any one of them.
In this delightful situation were we chatting, when one of Mrs. Bellmour's servants opening the door of my apartment, and just peeping in said, pray Madam, is Colonel Rochley here? the postillions are desirous of being discharged—I observed Mr. Douglas looked amazed; I protest I had quite forgot the poor fellows, cried Orlando, in my hurry to see you my dear Isabella; so saying, he went down stairs.
Did I hear right? said Mr. Douglas; did not the servant mistake your brother's name? did she not call him Rochley?—She did, Sir. How then (cried he, with a kind of impatience, a sort of I know not what in his manner) comes yours to be Beverley? pray explain this mystery; I have very particular reasons for being thus inquisitive. Rochley!—good God!—can it be? is it in nature?—speak, my dear child! and put an end to this suspence.
I was diverted with his emotions, looking upon them as nothing more than his surprise at finding me so much attached to a half brother, which I concluded he now fancied he was, by our names being different; and was preparing to acquaint him with the truth, and why I had taken that of Beverly when Orlando returned to us.
Come, my dear brother, said I smiling, come and help to expound an enigma that seems to puzzle my good friend not a little. I now gave him the reasons which had induced me to adopt what in the end proved so very perplexing. Your name, then, is absolutely Rochley? cried he, with still more energy and expression in his voice and countenance, than we thought the case required.—Both your names are Rochley?—pardon me, I must ask a few more questions.—In what part of England did your father live?—what was your mothers maiden name?
Harriot, this question gave rise instantly to a thousand confused ideas—never till that moment had it once occurred to me that as her name was Douglas (as you well know) there was a possibility that he might be related to her, I now wondered it never had—but there are so many in all parts of the world of the same name, yet not related, that I never thought about it.
In fine, I had no sooner told him it was Douglas, and that our father's seat was in Warwickshire, with some other particulars, than rising from his seat, and gazing on us both with every mark of kindness, affection, and surprise, he exclaimed, it must be—it must be so! I can no longer doubt it; come to my arms, my dear children, let me press to my delighted heart the son and daughter of my lamented, my beloved sister—yes, behold in me her only brother.
Can you, my dear Harriot, figure to yourself our astonishment or our joy?—'tis impossible—for some moments, it produced a scene of the most agreeable confusion; he continued to ask a thousand questions, to which our answers were so fully satisfactory, that not a doubt remained of the very important truth. No wonder, cried the delighted Mr. Douglas, I was so tenderly attached to this dear child; she made a most extraordinary impression on me the first moment I beheld her—but 'tis now easily accounted for—though then it amazed me, all lovely and deserving as she is, to find how much I felt myself interested in her happiness.
May I not flatter myself, said Orlando, respectfully, taking his hand, the brother of your engaging favourite will also be honored with a place in your esteem? be assured, my dear Sir, it shall from this happy moment be the study of his life to merit that distinction.
Doubt it not, cried our kind uncle, the striking resemblance I find in you to your amiable mother, would alone insure it to you; but you have still better claims; this dear child has said so much in your praise, has set your character in so fair a light, that you possessed it long before I saw you; and I need not add, your manner, person, and address, have confirmed the idea I had formed of you.
He again embraced us both with tender affection, bidding us look upon him as a father, whose greatest pleasure it would be to do every thing in his power to render us happy; and if wealth, continued he, can do it, that power, thank providence, is mine.
The news of this discovery was soon spread through the family, and my kind friend, Mrs. Bellmour, sent up her respectful compliments, begging we would permit her to wait upon us, that she might offer her sincere congratulations upon the fortunate event.
This, Harriot, you may easily guess, was readily granted—she came up, and absolutely shed tears of joy—When we were tolerably composed, and the first delightful emotions began to subside, Mr. Douglas gave us his history in few words, as follows:
At eighteen he went to the East-Indies, in a very lucrative employment, there he soon made a considerable fortune; he married an amiable woman, who brought him a large addition to it; by her he had two sons, who when they were of a proper age, he brought over to England, for their education.
At that time our dear mother was just going to be married; she was many years younger than her brother—he was present at her nuptials, and having placed his boys under the care of proper masters, he returned to India.
He had not been there more than twelvemonths, when he received the melancholy intelligence of his eldest son's death, this was a severe stroke, you may imagine, my dear Harriot, to so affectionate, so tender a parent—but his affliction was soon after greatly encreased by the loss of a wife he adored—I need make no comments on these distressing circumstances, your own feelings will render that unnecessary.
All his care, all his affection now centered in his surviving son;—for several years the accounts he heard of his improvements, consoled him as far as consolation was possible for his former losses.
He had thoughts of coming to England, in order to judge how far the encomiums he heard of his son were just, when he received a letter from this darling son, intreating his permission to join him in India, as his education was now fully completed, and his inclination led him to return to the land of his nativity. To this his father readily consented. He soon after obtaining the desired permission, but alas, Harriot—never reached the destined port, the ship was lost, and every soul on board perished.
This dreadful event gave rise
o the conjecture, that my worthy uncle was also dead, as it was be
ieved he was the Mr. Douglas who suffered that cruel fate; and his not returning to England, confirmed his friends in this opinion. You may have heard it mentioned, my dear Harriot, that my mother had a brother who was supposed
ost, either going or coming from
ndia.
My uncle had heard of our mo
her's death before this last affliction, and that she had left a son and daughter.—These he
now
being deprived of all he held dear, determined should be heirs to his fortune.—He therefore settled his affairs, and returned to England, and was but just arrived, when chance brought him to Mrs. Bellmour.
Having transacted the business he had to do in London, his design was to go into Warwickshire, to enquire for our family—he heard however, in London, of our father's death, and the fatal consequences of his misconduct. He had intelligence also, that his nephew was abroad, and was highly pleased with the character given of him, of me he had no hopes of gaining any information, till he went to the country.
Thus, Harriot, have I in as few words as possible, made you acquainted with the important, but happy change in our situation.—
I am still in so agreeable a flutter, that you must excuse me if I now bid you adieu.
I think, considering all things, I have been very minute. I will write again soon; till then, and ever, believe me to be affectionately yours,
ISABELLA BEVERLEY.
LETTER the Twenty-ninth.
The same to the same.
London.
OUR generous, our worthy uncle has now no motive for leaving London, having found here what he was going to the country in search of, he is therefore busily employed in providing a house, carriage, servants, &c. &c. the former he has met with in Portland-place, the latter you know is easily managed.
In this superb mansion, my dear Harriot, is your Isabella to preside, for he will not enter it, he says, unless we will both consent to reside with him, to this kind request, we could not possible make any objections, as you may readily conceive:—it is to be furnished in the most splendid manner—a most elegant
vis à vis,
is now building for my Orlando, and for me, such a profusion of finery is preparing, that were I going to wed an emperor, nothing would be found wanting.
The worthy man really dotes upon us both, and enjoys the thoughts of a certain lord's astonishment, when he sees me in this stateof grandeur, beyond expression, we have not yet found a leisure hour, to treat my brother with his lordship's adventure, but mean to do it the first opportunity—in a few days we hope to get into our house, 'tis what is called ready furnished; but my uncle finds ten thousand things wanting, and many he means to change for more expensive ones, such as glasses, commodes, &c. &c. in short he has the
spirit,
and I have also reason to believe the
purse
of a prince.
I confess Harriot I enjoy no less then he does, the amazement Lord Templeton will be in when he finds the insignificant Miss (as he no doubt thought me, or he durst not have treated me in the strange unaccountable manner he did) is thus transformed into a woman of fashion and fortune, all my fear is that he is gone abroad as he
threatened,
this would be a woeful disappointment to my uncle and me too, for we promise ourselves much diversion from his embarrassment, should we meet.
All his kind purposes of revenge Mr. Douglas's I mean, are now laid aside, our triumph he very justly thinks, will be quite sufficient punishment, when joined to our contempt, for he makes a point of my looking upon him as a
despicable wretch;
this I am obliged to promise, you know Harriot, but privately add, he is a most
intolerably handsome one;
this, however is,
entre nous,
I dare not for my life say as much to my uncle.
He is now abroad making some purchases, and my Orlando is on guard, I shall see but little of him for some time, as he has so much extra duty to do, to make up for the time he has been absent: dear creature, he is ten times handsomer than ever; no, you never beheld so fine a figure as he makes in his regimentals; 'tis certainly on a person so graceful as he is, a most captivating dress, it has always been said, we females are partial to a red coat, and I believe 'tis a fact; I am so, I confess.
Think on Miss Westbury's joy on this happy occasion, Harriot, but above all, think of her brother's—he will no doubt be
prodigiously delighted
—not a spark of envy—O! no to be sure—I wonder if they have yet heard of what has happened—yet I can hardly suppose Orlando could so long refrain from informing her of it, though he might
forget
to send a few lines to his
amiable friend
Sir John—Lady Beningfield too—how I enjoy the thought of meeting her, there I shall indeed triumph. Surely she must sink into the earth with confusion, but she must be callous to every sense of feeling, or she could not have behaved in the horrid, the insolent manner she has done.
I hear my uncle's voice—adieu, my dear friend, I must attend him, my next will be from Portlandplace,
Ever yours, sincerely, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Thirtieth.
Colonel ROCHLEY.
TO Lord TEMPLETON,
London.
WHY make such a bustle about my returning to England, my good friends? when behold on my arrival, I find you have thought proper to fly from London, the reason your lordship gives for your precipitate retreat, is a most laughable one I confess; but by no means satisfactory.
I think you might have contrived ways and means to have banished the remembrance of your fair, what shall I call her? not jilt, my lord, for I think you certainly jilted her.
Do let me beg you will return to town, I am impatient to have the whole account from yourself, I have it in fifty different ways, already you may be sure; but not one of them so clearly as I wish, I can make nothing of it—so pray set off on the receipt of this, on that condition I promise to tell you a story in return for yours; which, if not quite so laughable, is at least ten times more interesting and important; but not one word till we meet, your lordship may, perhaps, also hear mine fifty different ways, as I have yours; but if you can be satisfied with vague reports, I shall begin to think what I never did before, that you are not so much interested in my happiness, as I have hitherto imagined.
If what I have said, should prevail upon you to leave the shady groves and purling streams, where you are now sighing out your unfortunate
love,
though by the by, 'tis rather a cool amusement, at this season of the year, your lordship will find me in Portland Place, and there I will have the honor of introducing my sister to you, as you desired in your last.
She is now in town, and I think if a brother's partiality does not mislead his judgment, bids as fair to make you forget your present flame as any girl in England—come and see what you think of my taste,
Yours sincerely, ORLANDO ROCHLEY.
LETTER the Thirty-first.
Miss ROCHLEY, TO Miss LENOX.
London.
I Have absolutely exhausted my whole stock of exclamations, Harriot, before I have half got through the wonderful things I had to relate, I shall be compelled to take to your
ahs!
and
ohs!
from mere necessity, though they are more adapted to the tragic than my present story, which is rather comic.
We have been settled in our new habitation about a week or ten days, you may possibly think I ought to have told you so before now; but I had something else to do than scribble
You see I begin to give myself airs of importance already, Harriot, could I be a person of fashion and fortune, think you, if I did not? are they not in general a very saucy set of beings? I at least have some reason to know they are not
all
the reverse; the lady, however, to whom I am indebted for so much knowledge, was a twig of quality, and that to be sure does admit of more
hauteur
and impertinence than I am yet intitled to exhibit; but all in good time.
Your chief regret, I think, Harriot, during my late retirement, was my being debarred the joys of society—make yourself easy, as to that article now my dear, my uncle seems determined to make up for lost time, he has a numerous acquaintance amongst the Nabobs,—that is to say, amongst those, who like himself have made fortunes in India; not that he confines his attention to those only who have succeeded there—which is indeed by no means all who go with that view, those who have failed are no less welcome to his table, if having failed is their only crime—in short he is the worthiest, the most generous of men, and idolises your friend Isabella.
All I fear is, he may take it in his head, (fond as he is of his niece) to make her a present to some one of these sun-burnt heroes, as a reward for the services they have done their country—however, I have nothing of that kind to apprehend at present, though I have reason to think, I have made some impression on a few of their hitherto impenetrable hearts, for we have had half a hundred of them to dine with us already.
I ought first to have told you the family, on whose account my uncle wished to be at Mrs. Bellmour's (and who are also from the East) begged to be introduced to me, the moment they heard of the happy discovery.
It consists of a Mr. Harcourt, his lady, a most amiable woman; a daughter, who, though not a beauty, is infinitely more pleasing, more engaging than many who figure under that denomination, and two sons, very agreeable young men, they are immensely rich, and live in a princely stile—these are my intimates, for all formality was totally laid aside before we had been an hour in each others company.
Sophia Harcourt and I are inseperable—don't be jealous, Harriot, she is my town friend, you my country one, and being of an older date, must continue to occupy the first place in my heart, the
female
department in it—I mean my dear—as for the other,—
apropos
—that leads to the story before-mentioned, and so here it comes.
But first, let me tell you what you will say, when you have read it, Harriot.
How could you Isabella be so
provokingly teasing,
as to leave such a scene to the fag end of your letter? 'twas really ridiculous particularly as all the rest was mere chit chat, neither worth your writing nor my reading.
Let me know in your next, if these were not your very words—and now for my story.
Orlando was sitting with me in my dressing room the other morning, my uncle was from home, and I had determined to take that opportunity to acquaint
im with the history of Lord Templeton, which I had never
ill then found leisure to do; but
ust as I was on the point of beginning, a violent rap at the door
gain obliged me to defer it.
A servant now entered, and to my great amazement, announced Lord Templeton—who, following
im into the room, ran to embrace my brother with the utmost appearance of friendship and affection; but while in the very act of doing so, casting his eyes on me, he started, turned pale a
death, and seemed at a loss whethe
to credit his senses.
It would require fifty pens, Ha
riot, instead of one, to give yo an idea of the scene—his lordsh
stood, as if petrified with astonis
ment—I no less so, trembling fro
head to foot, gasping for breat unable to account for his impe
tinent intrusion, as it appeared me—my Orlando, gazing at us by turns, with looks of surprise and inquietude.
I
put on a forbidding air, and went towards the window; my lord, a little relieved, by being no longer under my scrutinizing eye, ventured to exclaim in a half whisper,—good Heaven's! Rochley, what am I to think of all this? I am confounded! amazed!—what must you—
Nay, my lord, interrupted my brother, rather let me ask what
I am
to think? you will particularly oblige me, if you will be kind enough to inform me, for upon my soul I can make nothing of it.
All I know for certain, is that I was truly glad to see you, and after telling you so, meant to have introduced you to my sister, but you seem to me to be both absolutely thunderstruck by the very sight of each other, so I may as well give up all thoughts of that nature, since 'tis pretty evident it will afford no great pleasure to either.
Your sister,
my dear Rochley! cried his lordship, in the most violent emotion—your sister!—Heaven and earth! what do I hear?
All this time, Harriot, I kept my place at the window, my heart beating as if it would burst my stays.
Good God! Orlando, continued his lordship, then I am the most wretched, the most unfortunate of men; I have sinned, yes, I have sinned, beyond all hopes of forgiveness: he then flew to me, and throwing himself on his knees, took hold of my gown, imploring me with the greatest energy to save him from distraction, by explaining those perplexities, which had nearly turned his brain.
Orlando now took my hand, seeing I was greatly agitated; Isabella, my love, said he, if you
can
oblige my lord in his request, let me intreat you to do it, for I am in no less danger of having my brain turned between you, than his lordship—speak I beseech you, my dear sister, that we may if possible be restored to our sober senses.—It seems you only
can
restore them, and for heaven's sake be quick in your resolves, lest your power should come too late.
Pray rise, my lord, cried I, turning to him—I confess I was rather surprized to find in a friend of my brother, a man who—
Ah, Miss Beverly! said his lordship, interrupting me, and still on his knees, confess rather,
I
have infinitely more cause for wonder to find in the woman I have so long adored, the sister of my friend; to find
Miss Beverley,
the lovely, the inflexible, the obdurate Miss Beverly! so unaccountably transformed into the no less charming Miss Rochley!—if
you
can account for it.
My brother now burst into a violent fit of laughter, the name of Beverly having explained to him the hitherto seeming enigmatical puzzle—or at least a great part of it; he had only therefore to learn how we became known to each other, and why his poor sister was treated with so many harsh epithets.
This, Harriot, was all I
then
fancied he had to be acquainted with, but soon found he had heard more of the matter than I had imagined.
I never saw a creature so much diverted as he was with our perplexity—and to crown all, who should now enter the apartment but my uncle.
My lord was still at my feet, where he seemed determined to remain, notwithstanding all my efforts to raise him; but had no sooner cast his eyes on Mr. Douglas, than he started up as if he had actually seen a ghost. To say truth, his visit had turned out rather extraordinary.
Heyday! cried his old friend—(alas! a friend no longer, Harriot) who have we here? upon my honour, this is as complete a piece of assurance as ever I was witness to. Some men, after a behaviour like yours, my lord, would rather have gone a thousand miles out of their way, than have run the hazard of meeting▪ a lady they had treated as you have treated Miss Rochley. But lords have none of that timid bashfulness in their composition, I presume.
What, you have heard, I suppose, that she is
now
mistress of a fortune more than equivalent to your
merit,
and very
wisely
thought it time to renew your addresses, as she cannot sure do less than reward
such merit as it deserves.
—Pray, Sir, may I ask what the devil put it into your head to—
Spare me, I entreat you, cried my lord, advancing towards my uncle:
how
and why I came here, I can answer without hesitation, or even a blush, Mr. Douglas; but all I have met with
since
I
came,
appears to me the work of enchantment.—I heard my friend Colonel Rochley was in town, and as I had every reason to flatter myself he would be glad to see me (nay I have it under his own hand) I flew to welcome him on his return to England—he received me with his usual cordiality—but to my utter confusion, the first object that struck me on entering here, was
Miss Beverly.
Miss Beverly however no longer, but transformed into the sister of my friend, and next (to complete my astonishment) although I have hitherto conceived your acquaintance with that lady, to have been of very short duration, you surprize me with your appearance, and in an authoritative and peremptory manner, which would imply your being perfectly at home here,
very politely
term my visit the height of assurance.
That I have something to answer for, in regard to Miss Rochley, (or rather to Miss Beverly) I freely confess—and I trust I can in some measure exculpate my apparent unpardonable conduct, if you, my dear Sir, will with your usual candour deign to listen to my defence; that is to say, in case you are still as much interested in Miss Beverly's affairs as when I had first the honor of your acquaintance, but of this I can by no means be certain, as all things seem to have undergone so strange, so incomprehensible a revolution.
My uncle himself, Harriot, could not forbear a smile at his distress, yet far from being satisfied that he could, as he had said, excuse his conduct, instantly checked it, saying, Yes, my lord, I am, and ever shall be, as much interested in Miss Beverly's affairs as I formerly was; and if that circumstance appears a sufficient reason to you, why you should endeavour to justify a behaviour, which I fear it will puzzle your lordship not a little to do fully, I am ready to give all my attention.
Are you, my Isabella, disposed to hear my lord's defence?
your connection
with the lady in question, I think, demands from you this indulgence—(I bowed assent, Harriot, to utter a syllable was absolutely out of my power)—as for you, Orlando, you being the friend of this very
gallant nobleman,
can do no less.
My brother smiling replied, 'tis true, my dear Sir, we have long been friends, and I would gladly believe, when this mighty history is fairly unravelled, we shall find no reason why we should not continue such, so pray, my lord, begin.
I, Harriot, was by this time so exceedingly fluttered that I feared I should faint, and was obliged to have recourse to my salts.—Shall I honestly confess I began to feel myself more interested in the business than I had hitherto been, 'tis needless to deny it. I trembled for the event, and most earnestly wished it happily over.
His lordship now took a letter out of his pocket-book, and presenting it to my uncle, begged him to read it to himself.
And why not to the company, my lord?
Pray, Mr. Douglas, indulge me so far as to look it over first, and if you shall then think proper to make the contents known, I shall readily acquiesce, as I am no stranger to the delicacy of your sentiments.
I would now have retired; indeed I wished to have done so before, but my uncle would not suffer it, either then or now, saying, sit still, my child,
you
can have nothing to blush for.
He had, however, no sooner read a few lines, than I observed him change colour as he went on, rage and indignation appeared visibly in his expressive countenance, vile, abominable wretch (he muttered repeatedly as he perused the scrol) Orlando and I looked on each other, unable to guess how the scene would end.
My lord frequently stole a glance at me; a thousand hopes and fears seemed alternately to agitate his bosom.
I really pitied him, Harriot, a something told me he could not be so guilty as we had till now believed however strong appearances were against him, I began, therefore, to flatter myself he would come off with honor—alas! I little dreamed that appearances in his lordship's opinion had been infinitely stronger against your poor Isabella—but to go on.
My uncle had no sooner finished the vile task allotted him, than turning to me with the kindest look he could assume,—you may retire for a moment, my dear child, said he, I must talk this matter over with his lordship; it will pain your amiable heart to be present. I will say thus much for my lord; he is not perhaps quite so blameable as I have hitherto imagined. Retire, Isabella, the subject is by no means proper for your ear.
I could make no reply, Harriot, I was in the most violent palpitation when I rose from my seat, insomuch that I could scarcely support myself. They all observed it; my Lord and Orlando both flew towards me; the latter in pity to his friend drew back, and gave my lord an opportunity to lead me to the door; he in the mean time ringing the bell for my woman.
My conductor returned a look of gratitude to my kind brother for his indulgence, and his countenance brightened at this proof that his friend did not think his cause entirely hopeless▪
Can you, my dear Harriot, figure to yourself a more distressing situation than mine during this uneasy state of suspence?—ten thousand conjectures offered themselves to my imagination, but not one that appeared satisfactory.
What that letter could contain, on which his lordship seemed to build all his hopes of justification, I could not possibly comprehend—who was the author? what was the subject?—when did he receive it?—and why not mention it to my uncle at the time he
did
receive it, if he then wished to be justified?—and if it was at that time a matter of indifference to him, why so anxious for it now?
These were some out of the many questions with which I was perplexing my poor brain, when a servant came to desire I would if agreeable to me, return to the company.
A moment before, I was dying with impatience for permission to do so, but now found my courage fail me. I paused, I hesitated, wished to go—but after endeavouring to compose the perturbation of my spirits for that purpose, found it impossible, and was obliged to send my compliments, begging my uncle would excuse me, as I had a severe head-ach.
What effect this message had on his lordship, I know not, but in an instant my affectionate Orlando was with me.
My dearest Isabella, said he (throwing his arms around me) why this agitation?—why these tremors, my dear sister? be composed (leading me to a sopha on which he sat down by me.)
Ah! can I be otherwise than in tremors, my kind brother, wha am I to think of all this?
Think! (with one of his engaging smiles, Harriot) why that yo have been a sly little gipsey; th
had you, as a
dutiful
sister ough to have done, acquainted me wit the important conquest you ha made, all this
fracas
would ha
been prevented, and my poor frien
would not have been the miserable being he is at this moment.
He, however, was more communicative than you chose to be Isabella. From him I learned the whole progress of his passion while I was abroad, but little did I dream
my
sister was the object of it, as he never happened to mention the name of his fair enslaver, either by chance, or taking it for granted I suppose, I should not be the wiser, but so it happened, and so have happened all the consequences that have followed; I mean they have been the consequence of your mutual silence.
Indeed, my dear Orlando, I never thought what had passed between his lordship and me, worth your attention. Besides, would it not have had the appearance of vanity, had I been so impatient to acquaint you with it as not to be able to wait your return, which I every day expected. Had I indeed guessed he was your friend, or even known to you, 'tis possible I might have given him a page now and then in my letters; but pray let me hear what has passed below since I left you.
First tell me cried he (sweetly taking my hand) does my Isabella wish to find his lordship acquitted?
Nay, my dear brother, that is so odd a question (and I fear, Harriot, I felt something very like a blush rise to my cheek) I vow I hardly know whether I do or not. My lord is nothing to me. I cannot strictly say I have any acquaintance with him, though he has contrived to make all this confusion.
Well, then (replied the sly creature) I may without fear of adding to that confusion, tell you his lordship made but an indifferent kind of a defence—our uncle you know, my dear, is not a man to be jested with in such serious matters, especially where the happiness of a lady is at stake, and that lady his darling niece.
Is it possible? is it really so? good heavens!—but how ridiculous, thus to pretend he even wished for a reconciliation—however, 'tis of no consequence—that is—I mean—in short, one would like to have known what apology he had fabricated.
Ah! Isabella, Isabella!—your defence, my dear girl, is ten times worse than his lordship's apology (cried Orlando, laughing.)
My defence, why what defence have I to make, in the name of wonder?
More than you are aware of. That becoming blush, for instance, is
one
charge I could bring against you, were I inclined to malice; but the truth is, I make the observation with much pleasure, admitting it will bear the construction I wish to put upon it—but I will keep you no longer in suspence, my dear sister, you have suffered too much from that painful sensation already.
Know, then, that whatever appearances have been against my poor friend Templeton, he had reason to think there were abundantly stronger against my Isabella.
Against me! (exclaimed I almost breathless) Ah! for heaven's sake, my dear brother, be quick in explaining to me the horrid cause of such injurious, such ambiguous accusations. How on earth can it be?—in what manner can I have incurred so much censure? is it possible to—
Have patience my love, and I will endeavour to clear up the whole affair.
I was unfortunately obliged to go abroad—for reasons already known to you, and which I thought sufficient, (though I believe 'twas only my anxiety to save you from the very possibility of trouble or insult, as I then told you that suggested the idea, rather than any real necessity) I advised you to change your name till my return.
To this single circumstance, we may impute all that has happened,—'tis a proof, Isabella, that we are poor short sighted mortals. I advised it in order to protect you, and it has on the contrary occasioned the very thing I hoped it would prevent.
Lord Templeton saw you—your charms made a deep (and I believe it will be a lasting) impression on his heart—how he contrived to inform you of his passion, you already know, and I also now know with what propriety, what true delicacy my Isabella conducted herself on the occasion.
The cause of his quitting London in the strange abrupt manner he did, which so justly gave rise to your astonishment and displeasure, (appearances were undoubtedly strongly against him) the cause I say was the letter he gave my uncle to read—in that letter, my poor sister is most
capitally slandered,
and our worthy generous uncle no less so—I will not shock your ears my dear with all the infamous, the horrid particulars, suffice it to say, they are such as fully excuses Lord Templeton, the circumstances are but too plausibly put together—but you will never guess who is the diabolical author of it, who nevertheless has not scrupled in order to give the calumny more weight to sign her name to it.
Ah! tell me that, at least my dearest Orlando, let me conjure you; but to inform me who can have been so cruelly, so causlessly my enemy? for sure I am, I am unconscious of ever having to my knowledge given offence to any living creature.
No other my dear, than one of the young women at Mrs. Bellmour's, her name Jane Brown.
Good Heavens! (exclaimed I in the greatest amazement) what on earth could be
her
motive for so horrid a piece of wickedness? I am confounded! absolutely astonished.
After reflecting a few minutes, Orlando, continued I, she must have been bribed to this,
she
could have no interest in the affair—'tis impossible—she must have been tempted to lend her name to some person of more importance, and that person I am positive can be no other than Lady Beningfield.
In order to convince my brother, my conjecture was at least founded on
probability,
Harriot: I now told him of the treatment I had met with from her—I found he was no stranger to her passion for his lordship, and of course putting those two circumstances together as I had done, was fully persuaded I had cleared up
that
mistery, which to
them
had been inexplicable.
However, said my brother, we shall soon put the matter beyond all doubt, for my friend left us in order to
wait upon the amiable
Miss Jane Brown, and if she has not had the wisdom and decency to
decamp,
he will spare no pains to make her speak truth for once in her life.
Now, my dear Isabella, (if you knew all you would) confess that appearances were rather against you, as well as your penitent adorer.
But ought, the said penitent adorer, my dear brother, to have so readily given credit to the vile insinuations whatever they were?—I feel my pride a good deal piqued I assure you, Orlando, at his daring to suspect—
Isabella, your observation in almost any other instance of a similar nature would have been perfectly just, (answered my brother) but if ever a man might be excused for his credulity, I must say, this case is one of them, never was there so infamous a falshood made to appear so like truth, never was there a story of so much plausibility invented, or one so likely to gain belief.—A girl like that could not
I
verily think have composed it—yet Lady Beningfield appears to me even less capable—I mean in regard to the stile, and manner of expression, in short 'tis a master piece in its kind—but we shall see.
In the mean time, tell me my love, what am I to say to poor Templeton? for he is as unhappy as any mortal can possibly be.
First tell me what said our uncle? is
he
satisfied? does he think my lord stands acquitted?
Why, to tell you the truth, my dear Isabella,
he
too thinks he ought not to have given such implicit credit to the d—nd scrawl, (as he very justly calls it) as not to have made some farther enquiries, and continues rather stately, yet he owns something may
be said
in the poor culprits favor, but is at present too much irritated to say it himself, or hearken to it from another,—time, however, will I trust, restore him to his favor and friendship; but 'tis in regard to
your's
my dear, my friend is infinitely more anxious.
Oh, as to mine, that's a trifle, men get over these violent attachments with wonderful ease, be under no apprehensions brother, his lordship will do mighty well, however I may think proper to decide the matter.
Isabella, that is not spoke with your usual candour—and in revenge, I will now tell you, that I know to a certainty—yes, to a
certainty, that
little heart of thine would be a good deal mortified, if you now spoke your real sentiments, my friend Templeton is not the kind of man to be looked upon with so much cool indifference as my sly sister would persuade me she beholds him with, so you may as well drop a character that is not natural to you my dear, and be again yourself, for believe your Orlando, you cannot possibly assume any other half so amiable.
I kissed his dear cheek, Harriot, for this very kind and pleasing speech, and honestly told him, I believed he had discovered a window in my breast, as he had so easily contrived to get a peep into that heart, whose feelings I had so foolishly wished to conceal.
That's a good girl, now you are again my own Isabella.
No need to let his lordship into this pretty secret, though my dear brother (as he was taking his leave of me) remember that if you please.
O, never fear, I shall leave him to make the flattering discovery as
I have done.
So saying, he with a significant smile on his fine face left me, no doubt to go in search of his
penitent
friend.
Really Harriot, 'tis full time I should now take my leave of you, for this is a most enormous packet, but I wished to give you the whole story without any interruption in my narrative, how it will end, is more than I can at present take upon me to inform you of, though things seem to be taking rather an agreeable turn.
I have had so much to say about myself, that I have had no time lately to write a single word about my Orlando's
fair one.
I will just mention, however, that he has had a most delightful
billet doux
from the dear girl, and that she continues all he can possibly wish.
Sir John is in
statu quo
—which being
rendered into plain English, is a bear still,
swearing she shall never, if he can prevent it, give her hand to the man who would have taken his life.
If he can prevent it, Harriot—that's a saving clause—for it runs strangely in my head he
cannot ergo,
she will give it him, and that too e'er, many months ensue.
This I know is your wish as well as mine, adieu my dear girl▪
Believe me ever, most affectionately your's, ISABELLA ROCHLEY.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.