Memoirs of a Magdalen: or, the history of Louisa Mildmay. Now first published from a series of original letters. In two volumes. ... [pt.2]

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

- LETTER XIII. Miss HARRIOT BEAUCLERK to Miss LOUISA MILDMAY.

- LETTER XIV. Miss MILDMAY to her Mother.

- LETTER XV. Mr. MELMOTH, to Sir ROBERT HAROLD.

- LETTER XVI. Mr. MELMOTH, in Continuation, to Sir ROBERT HAROLD.

- LETTER XVII. Miss HARRIOT BEAUCLERK to her Mother.

- LETTER XVIII. Sir ROBERT HAROLD to CHARLES MELMOTH, Esq.

- LETTER XIX. Miss LOUISA MILDMAY to Miss HARRIOT BEAUCLERK.

- LETTER XX. Sir ROBERT HAROLD, to CHARLES MELMOTH, Esq.

- LETTER XXI. Lady HAVERSHAM to the Countess of BLANDFORD.

THE HISTORY OF LOUISA MILDMAY.

THE END.

MEMOIRS OF A MAGDALEN. [P. 6s. B.]

MEMOIRS OF A MAGDALEN: OR, THE HISTORY OF LOUISA MILDMAY.

Now first published from a SERIES OF ORIGINAL LETTERS.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON: Printed for W. GRIFFIN, in Catharine-Street, in the Strand. M DCC LXVII.

LETTER XIII. Miss HARRIOT BEAUCLERK to Miss LOUISA MILDMAY.

O! my sweet friend, my dearest Louisa, are our sorrows never to have an end; and is every day that should mitigate the severity of our fortune, to bring us nothing but an aggravation of distress! Your poor brother—I cannot keep it from you—was a few hours ago brought to us desperately wounded by that barbarous villain Harold, with whom he accidentally met at the Crown in Reading; and there, with more courage than discretion called to an account for his infamous behaviour to the most beautiful and most worthy of her sex. Pistols were the cursed weapons they fought with, and your brother received a shot a little above the groin; the ball was extracted by an eminent surgeon at Reading, and the colonel was brought home in a litter, as the physicians judged it better to remove him even such a number of miles, than to let him remain in any place where he could not have proper accommodations.

Your poor mother, when she saw him borne in, fainted away, and was immediately removed to her own apartment; where, after applying the necessary restoratives, we happily recovered her; she then told me that this was nothing more than what she expected, and that she was the less affected at the shock as she had rendered it continually familiar to her imagination—"Yet, Miss Beauclerk," continued the venerable lady, ‘it is a severe stroke, though an expected one; but God's will be done.’ A large tear then rolled down her fine face, which she endeavoured to restrain, as she saw how much I was touched with the general misfortune; after this, she sent for the surgeon, and doctor, who attended the colonel, from Reading, and begged they would give her their candid opinion of his situation.— ‘Don't be afraid to tell me gentlemen,’ says she, endeavouring at a smile; ‘for, though I have all the tenderness of a mother, I hope I also possess the resignation of a Christian.’ The gentlemen looked at one another in admiration both of her piety and her fortitude, and very freely owned that the colonel was in some danger; but that they were nevertheless in hopes, if they could prevent a fever, to see him tolerably recovered in a little time. The gentlemen then preparing to withdraw, I whispered the doctor to feel her own pulse, which he did in a very respectful manner, and advised her to loose a few ounces of blood: she assented to the motion; and the doctor at going out gave me a look of benignity for my recollection, that indicated a goodness of heart in himself, which has raised him not a little in my estimation. After your mother had been bled, we prevailed upon her to lye down, and I left her just now in a sweet doze, which I flatter myself will do her a world of benefit.

As my attention at your brother's first coming in was called off by your mother's distress, I sent for Butler, his Irish servant, who is principally employed about his person, to be informed of particulars—The poor fellow, though deeply affected for his master's accident, told me he should ever love and honour his old master, for bearing up so like a man against the stroke of misfortune—"Madam," says he, ‘instead of exclaiming, as the generality of father's would have done on such an occasion, and censuring the rashness of his son, he took hold of my master's hand, kissed it with an air of inconceiveable satisfaction, and praised him for the attention which he had shewn to the honour of his family: the only regret he testified, was at hearing that the person who had injured his honour was not hurt in the engagement; for, had he fallen, says my old master, that would have been a great satisfaction—And so it would you know madam,’ continued the honest Hibernian, — ‘The honour of a good family is a very nice affair; I am come of as good a family myself as any in Ireland, and know how to feel for such a misfortune as has happened to my master's.’

Though I could not help smiling at the egotism of poor Butler, I nevertheless desired him to answer my questions, and not teaze me with his reflections: he therefore proceeded to inform me that your father and brother were both more than ever incensed against Harold, and that your brother had solemnly swore to call him to a second account the moment he recovered from the present accident; that your father, however, had been forced out of the room from the colonel, as talking did much injury to the latter; and that the old gentleman, upon withdrawing, said something about altering his will; Butler added, that your brother desired a visit from me above all things, and he believed would request a favour of that kind if he was any way better in the morning.

You conjure me by all our friendship, my dearest Louisa, to give you a minute account of every thing; to mitigate no description, and to conceal no distress; I obey you, though against my inclinanation, as I know how a sensibility like your's must be wounded by a repetition of some circumstances; but my sweet, my ever amiable friend, exert your utmost resolution, and prepare to meet those evils with fortitude, which are impossible to be avoided—True magnanimity is never seen till the day of distress, and those have naturally the noblest minds who make the firmest stand against affliction.

From some things which have escaped your brother since I wrote the foregoing part of this letter, I have reason to imagine that Sir Robert Harold was not altogether so much in fault, in the late rencounter, as we were inclined to imagine: colonel Mildmay himself acknowledges, that he used every provocation before he could prevail upon the baronet to engage; and he even intimates, that Sir Robert was actually going to town with an intention of throwing himself at your feet, and imploring your forgiveness—If this was the case, it was certainly rash in the colonel to carry matters to such an extremity; he ought to consider that the happiness of more people than one is dependent upon his welfare, and that the hazarding of his life may increase the general misfortune, but can never have the smallest tendency to remove it: but he has too nice a sensibility for his own ease, and is frequently running into real ills to avoid imaginary misfortunes. You know, my dear, my partiality for your brother; and you also know that, on the present occasion, prudence will not allow me to give such a loose to my feelings as I should naturally shew, were we on such a footing as you have frequently wished us—Perhaps, it may be something of this very partiality which induces me to wish, that, in the course of the recent transaction, he had made use of a little less spirit, and a little more understanding. You cannot conceive, my dearest Louisa, how it distresses me to think of his situation, to find myself in the same house with him, and yet to be under a necessity of seeming only a friendly partaker in the common calamity—This cruel constraint is too much, and I pine, I sicken, I die, for an interview with him, though I am sensible such a circumstance in his present condition must fill me with the most poignant affliction; hitherto he has never said a single syllable that could furnish a reasonable hope of his considering me with any tenderness of prepossession; but he has nevertheless been studious to gain my good opinion, though he has declined to solicit for my love; and I have a strong notion that he intends to be particular the very first opportunity: my heart at least interprets things in that sense, and who knows—But my sweet Louisa forgive me; how could I possibly indulge the most distant thought of happiness, while you are sinking under the deepest distress, and while the life of the dear youth is at stake, on whom my whole happiness so materially depends! O! Louisa, excuse the woman at my heart, which, in spite of my best efforts, would talk about your brother, though the share which you know I partake in his danger must add in a very considerable degree to your anxiety. If possible, I will forbear to mention him with regard, that I may avoid wounding so nice a part of your sensibility, since I am conscious with what a generous concern you feel for your Harriot, and am but too apprehensive that this concern will lead you into some self accusations equally injurious to the recovery of your own peace, and the stability of her friendship.

In my last, I told you that my mother, upon hearing what an unexpected cloud had overcast the happiness of your family, gave me permission to stay for a few days with her dear Mrs. Mildmay, tenderly as well as wisely considering, that, in the present state of things, her venerable friend would naturally want somebody to sooth the anguish of her mind, who was really interested in her distress. You cannot conceive how kindly the worthy lady, your mother, has received this little instance of our attachment—She wept over me when I mentioned my design to remain at Mildmay Hall till my attendance became unnecessary; and, ardently pressing me to her bosom, condescended to kiss my cheek, and called me her true Harriot, her other Louisa—Ever since she has honoured me with a more than common share of her confidence; is desirous of being alone with me upon every occasion; and you may easily conjecture, my ever amiable girl, what subject principally engrosses our conversation.

Just this moment she sent for me to her bedside: having been some minutes awake, and seeing my fingers marked with ink—"I suppose, my love," says she, ‘you have been writing to poor Louisa.’ I replied in the affirmative, and insinuated what a consolation it would be to you, if you were honoured with her remembrance. ‘My dear Miss Beauclerk,’ returned she, ‘have not I already told you, that she is still my child; that she even may write to me if she pleases, and that I shall always consider her unhappy fall with a much greater share of pity than resentment? To be candid with you, my obliging love,’ continued the dear lady, ‘I am more to be blamed for leaving Sir Robert Harold and Louisa so frequently together, than either is for abusing the confidence which I reposed in their discretion. Young people, where they tenderly love each other, and where a day is set apart for their marriage, are very dangerous companions; the woman loses all her fear, and the man all his veneration; they become insensibly more and more familiar, till their imaginations are intensely heated, and their recollection totally lost—In such a situation, the consequence is but too obvious; the woman wakes into distraction, and the man into doubt or disgust—She trembles for his constancy, and he fears for her virtue; recriminations naturally ensue, and they either go to the altar with sentiments very little calculated to preserve their future felicity, or break off in such a manner as draws a general disgrace upon the woman and her family. O! Miss Beauclerk, why did'nt I consider this matter with propriety, when such a consideration would have been essential to my happiness! Why would I expose the darling of my heart to dangers which it was scarcely possible for her to avoid; or ensnare the inexperience of my child with unecessary temptations—But, alas, because she was my child, I must foolishly suppose her above the reach of human infirmities, and be guilty of an inattention in my own conduct, which I would have severely censured in the mother of any body else. O! my sweet Louisa, your doating mother's extravagant fondness has been the cause of all our calamities; and your indiscretion was nothing more than the natural result of her mistaken partiality.’

In this manner, my beautiful friend, did the generous minded lady proceed, while my tears could only testify the warmth of my approbation. She was pleased to see me touched; and, more than once kissing away the drops from my cheeks, declared she was never sorry to see a young lady miserable at a scene of distress, because those only could continue unmov'd, who were utterly destitute of humanity and understanding—Your father came in about this time; and seeing both our eyes red, assigned, in the fury of his resentment, a very different cause from the real one.— ‘What do you cry for, my dear?’ says he to your venerable mother, ‘If the villain, who has brought all this affliction upon our heads is not yet sacrificed, be satisfied that justice shall overtake him in the end; for I have a gallant boy still living, who shall pursue him with unceasing vengeance till he has washed away the disgrace of our family in his blood: O! had the inhospitable monster but fallen to day, how light should I have made of my son's misfortune; but he shall yet feel me—By the great God of heaven and earth he shall; and so, my dear, be pacified.’

"O! Mr. Mildmay," replied your mother, ‘too much blood has been spilled already; and, if something which I have casually heard from Miss Beauclerk, of Sir Robert's repentance, be true, I must say that it would be much better to think of an accommodation than to expose ourselves to any additional share of distress; lady Haversham is an excellent woman, and I have strong reason to imagine, that her influence will have every weight we could wish with the thoughtless young man, her brother; suffer me, therefore, my dear, to make an enquiry into the foundation of Miss Beauclerk's intelligence, that if we find—’

"Find what, madam!" (interrupted your father, with an uncommon degree of vehemence) ‘You would not surely have the dishonour of your family pass unpunished, nor think of receiving a villain as your son-in-law, who has covered you with the most infamous disgrace! Would you give your daughter to a ruffian, who has possibly murdered your son; or would you basely beg of lady Haversham to speak a good word for us to her scoundrel of a brother? Are we reduced at once so low as to kneel where we have been barbarously injured; and must we think of supplicating a monster for compassion, whose hands have been equally steeped in our reputation and our blood? Fie, Mrs. Mildmay, fie! this is a language unworthy both of your character and your descent; and could I find a thought of so dishonourable a nature rising in my bosom, I should do instant justice on the traytor, and stab it to the heart.’

Your mother made no reply to this but by a shower of tears; which your father being utterly unable to withstand, he flew out of the room, leaving me to give the dear lady what consolation I could, which in fact was but very trifling, as I stood in no little need of consolation myself. Such, my sweet friend, is the state of matters at Mildmay Hall. Your brother, though his wounds pain him considerably, slept a full hour this evening, so Butler just now acquainted me, adding, that he and the surgeon were to sit up all night with him; and assuring me that there should be no want of attendance on either of their parts.—"As for myself," says Butler, ‘I shall have but little inclination to sleep while my poor master continues in any danger; and as for the surgeon, I will take care that he shall wake whenever there is the smallest necessity for his assistance.’ So saying, he gave a significant look, as if he should be angry with the gentleman in case of any neglect, and marched off to the housekeeper for some old linen to cut up in bandages. You desired me, at the conclusion of your letter, to inform you, whether there is any other visitor at the Hall—It is with pleasure I can acquaint you that there is not. The morning after your departure, messengers were sent to every body invited, but myself, to let them know that an unexpected circumstance had happened, which must delay the wedding for some time; but that they should receive early intelligence against the day of celebration. And now, my dearest Louisa, let me again insist that you will bear up with all your fortitude against the hand of adversity—Fortune, believe me, will yet wear a propitious countenance, and we shall all experience a degree of happiness in proportion to the severity of our present distress. Your mother, my sweet girl, on her reverend knees, with streaming eyes, and uplifted hands, is this moment blessing you; such a woman's prayers to the Throne of Mercy must be effectual.—Providence looks with delight upon all parental supplications; but where a parent is peculiarly distinguished for every virtue, the petition is sanctified into a kind of claim, and is no sooner pronounced than rewarded. Good night, sister of my soul, my ever amiable Louisa. By the next post you shall hear from me again, and I hope infinitely more to your satisfaction.

HARRIOT BEAUCLERK.

LETTER XIV. Miss MILDMAY to her Mother.

IF I have yet delayed paying my humblest duty to my ever revered mama; if I have yet denied myself the unspeakable satisfaction of approaching her by letter, it was neither from a want of the deepest respect, nor the strongest inclination.—But, alas! covered with confusion and dishonour, sinking beneath a consciousness of my guilt, and knowing myself utterly unworthy of her smallest consideration, I wanted courage to address her; and even blushed at my presumption, when I supposed it might be possible for her to remember a miserable wretch like me, with any distant traces of pity or affection—And, O! my mama, did you really, on your reverend knees, condescend to beg a blessing for your unfortunate daughter; did you really, with streaming eyes, implore the Throne of Mercy in my favour; and extend your benignant hands to pluck down comfort on my head? Could you pray for the restoration of her peace who has so barbarously destroyed your happiness; and wish a length of prosperous years to an unnatural monster, whose infamy has shortened your own date of days, and blackened the little remnant with affliction and disgrace?—O! madam, where shall I hide myself from this excess of goodness!—Where shall I take refuge from this unbounded amplitude of generosity! The severity of reproach I could have borne, because it is deserved; and I could have withstood the shock of indignation, because it is merited. But this astonishing tenderness is insupportable—it overcomes—it destroys me—and at this moment I am forced to make a full pause, being unable to bear up against the conflict of my own heart, which is no less torn with the keenness of my gratitude, than tortured by the pungency of my remorse.

A few drops of hartshorn having somewhat relieved a faintingness that came over me just then, I now endeavour to resume my letter, though totally at a loss in what manner to proceed: for, alas! my dear mama, can I possibly mention any subject that will not aggravate the nature of my guilt, and add to the greatness of your affliction? If I ask after my ever honoured father, the pangs with which I have filled his venerable bosom immediately occur—If I mention the best beloved and noblest of brothers, I find him weltering in blood on my account; and if I even address myself to you, who have treated me with such an infinite degree of unexampled generosity, do I not find you languishing on the bed of sickness, and drooping at the infamy of a daughter, who should have been the happy source of your consolation?—O! my dear mama, revoke your gracious, your inestimable blessing—Renounce me—curse me—and detest me; for I am detestable in my own eyes, and am ready to commit some instant act of desperation, when I recollect, what ruin I have brought upon you all—What a dreadful return have I made for all your unbounded tenderness and affection! Yet, madam, presumptuous as it must be in me to name either you, my father, or my brother, after what has past, still I must take the liberty of offering up my prayers for the recovery of your peace; still must I pray for the re-establishment of my brother's health, who is so great an ornament to the family; if the goodness of that God, who sees into the bottom of my afflictions, would be pleased to restore him, and to take me speedily out of the world, I should hope it was yet possible for you to be happy together, notwithstanding the misconduct of a guilty wretch, who is now so just an object of your contempt and detestation.

The good lady Haversham, ever since my arrival in town, has been a constant visitor at Mrs. Darnel's, and tries by every means in her power to alleviate the poignancy of my distress—She laments the behaviour of her brother with the sincerest concern, and has shewn me some letters from him, which give me reason to think he is very sorry for it himself, and is desirous of taking every possible step to effect a reconciliation; but that, madam, is a matter not to be thought of now—He has shewn himself unworthy of being a son to you and my papa; and, for any thing that should depend on my determination, could I gain the world by a union with him, or, what is more, could I recover my lost peace of mind, I should spurn him without hesitation, and think it an increase of my present infamy to retain him a moment in my remembrance—No, madam, though I have disgraced my family by the madness of one guilty moment, my mind is yet incapable of a premeditated baseness; and would scorn to vow duty and obedience, where it cannot look without an equal mixture of abhorrence and contempt. You do not know, my dear mama, how very scandalous a part he has acted. You do not know with how elaborate a meanness, with how ingenious a littleness, he has behaved in the course of this unfortunate transaction; but Miss Beauclerk, in a few days, will be able to make you acquainted with the minutest circumstance. I am writing out the whole melancholy story at her request; and I know it will give your generous bosom some satisfaction to find, that though I am guilty, I have not by any subsequent action rendered myself despicable.

Lady Haversham, madam, was this moment here; she came to me in an absolute state of distraction, so that it was a full hour before Mrs. Darnel and I could restore her to any tollerable share of tranquility—She had a letter in her hand directed to Mr. Melmoth, of whom you heard her brother speak so very highly when he was down in the country. This letter, it seems, was a circumstantial account of the unhappy quarrel between my brother and Sir Robert; from which we learn, that the worthless man was coming after me in a great hurry to London, to throw himself at my feet, and to implore my forgiveness for his barbarous behaviour. O! that my brother had not seen him at Reading; his life had then been entirely out of a danger; and I should have the pleasure at least of mortifying his cruel antagonist with a repulse.

The countess, when she came a little to herself, entered into a long conversation with me about the impropriety of refusing her brother, since he was now brought to so happy a conviction of his errors, and was attached to me still with so unabating an ardency of affection— ‘I am sure, my dear Louisa,’ argued she, ‘notwithstanding you have very great cause for being offended with him, you have not yet erased him from your heart; and it would, of consequence, be punishing yourself, not to think of forgiving him in the end.’ I begged, at last, that her ladyship would say no more on the subject; that it pained me excessively, and that I could never hear her brother's name without reflecting on my own disgrace, and the general dishonour of my family: she then obligingly waved the discourse; but said, that she and Mr. Melmoth were to set off for Mildmay Hall in the morning; and that she hoped to find you and my papa more propitious to her entreaties, than what the justice of my resentment would at present suffer me to be; I then only said, that I had disobliged my papa and mama too much not to wish for some opportunity of making an attonement; but that the circumstance she hinted at was a method, which I was pretty sure would not meet with their approbation: however, she left me, after making some professions of a nature so extremely generous, yet delicate, that I could not help lamenting, after her departure, to find so very worthless a man as her brother engrossed so great a share of her affection. For my own part, I once loved him, once tenderly loved him; but why do I torture my recollection with his name; his baseness has cured me of that passion, and I am now alive to nothing but the sense of my dishonour, and the afflictions of my family.

That these afflictions may be speedily removed, my dearest mama, is my incessant prayer; life has now no other charm but the hope of seeing your happiness, the happiness of my papa, and the happiness of my brother, reestablished; could I once see these desirable events, I should sink contented into my grave; for, though I shall never know a moment's peace in this world, I shall not enter upon the next with any satisfaction, if I have but the smallest cause to think that you remember me with regret. Do not, therefore, my everto-be-revered mama, suffer yourself to feel any uneasiness on my account. Do not let the recollection of a guilty creature like me prey upon your health, and render the family misfortune irreparable. My dear brother, madam, deserves all your tenderness; and, could a union be brought about between him and my amiable Miss Beauclerk, she would supply every thing which I once endeavoured to be—before I was unworthy to be called your dutiful daughter,

LOUISA MILDMAY.

LETTER XV. Mr. MELMOTH, to Sir ROBERT HAROLD.

Dear HAROLD,

YOU are certainly one of the happiest fellows in the world: every thing is in a fair way of being adjusted to your wishes; and, before the end of six weeks, I am in hopes to give you joy on your marriage with the amiable Miss Mildmay.

The moment I received your last letter I went to lady Haversham with it; and you may easily judge how much that excellent woman was affected at the contents. Tremblingly attentive to your safety, it was with the greatest difficulty she could go through your account of the duel; and, generously sensible to the distresses of the Mildmay family, she felt very severely for the misfortune of the colonel— ‘O! Mr. Melmoth,’ cried she, ‘what must poor Louisa suffer, what must the good Mrs. Mildmay suffer, on this shocking occasion! My brother, conscious of his guilt, should have borne every thing; and yet, upon the whole, he has acted with more temper than I expected—See Sir,’ continued she, ‘how wide, how general a ruin may be occasioned by one bad action! Did young fellows consider what a number of evils may possibly spring from the commission of a single crime, a moment's recollection would be sufficient to deter them from their most favourite pursuits; but, alas! totally regardless of consequences in the progress of their licentious designs, they think the young lady is the only person to be injured, without considering that there is a mother to die at her destruction; and a father, or a brother, to madden at her disgrace.’

After lady Haversham had given way for some time to her emotion, I asked her if it would not be the most prudent step that could be taken, for her ladyship to set out instantly to Mildmay Hall with your letter in her hand, and fairly shew the father and mother how little you were to be blamed in your rencounter with the colonel. I observed, that, notwithstanding their resentment against you, they had every reason to treat her with the most unreserved affection; and I offered my service as an escorte, if she imagined I could accompany her with any degree of propriety. The motion met her approbation, and she accepted of my offer with great satisfaction; saying, that, as Miss Mildmay's misfortune could not possibly remain a secret, the presence of a man so intimate with your family could by no means be indelicate. She, however, put off the expedition till the morning, being first of all desirous to see Louisa, whom she had not visited that day.—And here I must inform you, Harold, that your sister has bought a very elegant chariot, and settled matters just as you could wish with Mrs. Darnel. When lady Haversham came to that part of your letter which mentions such a provision—it was too much for her, she laid the paper down, and bursting into a flood of tears, exclaimed— ‘Why, this is well thought of Mr. Melmoth—there is soul in this! what pity it is that he will not be uniformly good, and take as much pains to avoid the commission of an injury as he manifests inclination to repair it!’ —But to business.

Yesterday morning we set out in a chariot and six for Mildmay Hall, and arrived there about two o'clock, quite surprizing Mr. and Mrs. Mildmay, as you may naturally imagine, by our unexpected appearance. The old gentleman at first carried matters very high, and seemed to think himself under a necessity of keeping a prodigious distance; but lady Haversham, who has a degree of consideration that equals her benignity, kindly made allowances for his behaviour; and, seizing him by the arm with all that candour of cordiality which generally disarms an ill-grounded resentment, begged of him to consider her as a faithful friend to his family, who deeply partook in his misfortunes, though these misfortunes were unhappily created by the profligacy of her brother;—"My dear Mr. Mildmay," expostulated the admirable woman, ‘I am almost as much to be pitied as yourself; you know how much my heart was in an alliance with your house, and you also know how tender a friendship I ever entertained for the amiable Louisa; don't therefore, instead of giving me consolation, add ungenerously to my distress; but consider me as a person deeply sensible of all your wrongs; and warmly animated with all your resentments. The author of the present calamity is my brother; but I am sure you cannot think me the sister of his crime; nor imagine, that, because I am allied to him in blood, I must likewise be allied to the guilty part of his character. Look at me, I beseech you, with complacency; and tell me that my presence is not unwelcome in the country.’

This address there was no possibility of resisting—Mr. Mildmay's heart was melted; and, in spite of all his pride, he took hold of her hand with an air of the greatest respect, held it to his lips, and endeavoured to make an apology—A rising flood of grief, however, choaked the passage of his words; he broke into a sob of inexpressible affliction; and hastily retired out of the room. You know, Harold, how readily the mother, as you call it, comes into my eyes; you know, besides, that I am twenty good years older than you, and have been once a father. I could not, therefore, stand the excess of poor Mr. Mildmay's emotion; my handkerchief was out in an instant, and, notwithstanding my utmost efforts, to suppress my concern, I blubbered so heartily as to be under a necessity of retiring also, unacquainted as I was with the house, and ridiculous as I must have made myself to the servants. As to Mrs. Mildmay, nothing can be more tender or affecting than the reception of your sister.—The two ladies, at their first meeting, remained clasped for some moments in each other's arms, each unable to speak a syllable, and both giving a very copious freedom to their tears.

When we had all a little recovered ourselves, and taken a dish of chocolate, lady Haversham, with her usual delicacy, began to enter upon the business of her journey; lamenting the colonel's wound, in terms the most friendly; and hoping that the unfortunate affair at Reading would not prevent the possibility of a reconciliation between the two families: she then set forth your extreme contrition for the part you had acted by Louisa; and insinuated that she had a letter from you in her pocket, which, if Mr. Mildmay would take the trouble of reading, she was certain, would, in some measure, lessen the severity of his present indignation. Mr. Mildmay upon this took fire; swearing, with great vehemence, that, so far from consenting to a reconciliation, he never would enjoy a moment's peace of mind till you were sacrificed to his vengeance; and, that, if he but knew where you were then concealed, he would himself, old as he was, call you to an instant account for murdering the reputation of his family.

This was a sally of passion which we naturally expected, and therefore did not once interrupt him, till it was entirely exhausted; lady Haversham then resumed the subject, and begged of him to consider, that she was now talking as much for the sake of his happiness, as for the happiness of her brother.—"Indeed, my dear Mr. Mildmay," continued she, ‘if I was not sensible that the present calamity, under which we all labour, requires great allowances, I should be apt to think you almost as culpable as my brother himself. Does it follow, because he has grossly injured the honour of your house, that you yourself should do it still greater injuries? or can it admit of a moment's debate which is the most proper course to follow—that which will recover the tranquility of your family, or that which will expose it to an additional distress?’

‘If calling my brother to an account for his misbehaviour, could be attended with any advantages, I should not wonder so greatly at your resentment; but when to do that, as has been already unhappily the case, the safety of a dear and deserving son must be hazarded; and when, even if he should kill his antagonist, he must forfeit his own life to the violated laws of his country—I say, when these things are considered; and when it is moreover recollected, that, though the lenity of the laws should spare the life of your son, it can by no means restore your peace; I am in hopes that your own good sense will induce you to abate the warmth of your indignation, and that you will prefer a certain felicity to a precarious revenge—Justice, you see, by the colonel's unfortunate wound, may sometimes be unattended with success; and should you still prosecute a quarrel with a man who desires, who supplicates, who implores to make every reparation that can be made; the world will think your resentment carried to an unreasonable length, and be apt even to rejoice should you meet with any new calamity.’

‘To the arguments which I have already offered, my dear Mr. Mildmay, I have another very forcible plea to add, which I am sure must operate on your tenderness, as a husband; and upon your justice, as a man:—Turn, Sir, to this venerable, this excellent woman, the companion of your youth, the partner of your sorrows, the possessor of your heart—see where she is, sinking under the sternness of your resolution, and bleeding with an apprehension of future misfortunes, as well as with a sensibility of the present distress—She, Sir, has a mother's claim in the son, whose life you are so willing to expose. Do not drive her into absolute distraction—Her anguish is already excessive, and her death must be inevitable, if you think of washing away her daughter's stain with nothing but the blood of her son. On my knees, therefore, Mr. Mildmay,’ and down the wonderful woman dropped, ‘let me beg of you to think of a reconciliation. —My brother is deeply wounded by the consciousness of his own guilt; and will, I am certain, from motives of gratitude, as well as affection, make a good son, and a deserving husband. Do not, my dear Mr. Mildmay, because one affliction has interrupted your happiness, rashly devote yourself to wretchedness for life; but rather seize the best means of dispelling the cloud which at present overcasts your peace; and endeavour at recovering the genial sunshine of that tranquility which has been so recently and so fatally lost.’

Mr. Mildmay (who all the time of your sister's kneeling, in vain attempted to raise her up) seemed greatly struck with what she said; but, though his reason was convinced, his pride nevertheless held an obstinate struggle, and he several times attempted to quit the room—Lady Haversham and I as often prevented him from going out; we prevailed upon him with difficulty, to hear the principal part of your letter read; and Mrs. Mildmay herself kneeling to him, and in very pathetic terms requesting him to oblige lady Haversham, he was at last overcome, and consented that you might be sent for as soon as we pleased, desiring only that the ceremony might be delayed till the recovery of the colonel.

When we had thus settled the material affair, our conversation naturally turned upon the colonel's case, and the abilities of his attendants.—Mr. Mildmay said, that, though the wound at first appeared extremely dangerous, as it was very near the groin; nevertheless, the surgeons now told him, that there was but little doubt of a fine cure, provided he escaped a fever— "And this" said the old gentleman, ‘I am no way uneasy about, as the weather is very cold and his pulse so very temperate: but,’ added he, ‘suppose you go and see him; there is nobody with him but Miss Beauclerk: and he had so fine a morning's sleep that we shan't in the least fatigue him with our company.’ We accordingly went; and were received, as I expected, with great coldness, though with great civility—The sight of people so very near to you naturally hurting that impatience which we all labour under where we have received any thing which looks like a disgrace. Lady Haversham, however, went up to him as if she had been his sister; and expressed her concern for the cause of his misfortune, with so unaffected an air of cordiality as reconciled him a little to his visitors. We then acquainted him with the business of our journey, talked matters over again, and read all your letter but that part where the provision for his sister is mentioned: he was extremely attentive to your account of the duel, and begged more than once to hear a repetition of some particular passages. When I had done, he paused a little, and said, you were very exact in the relation; and that, had he imagined you were actuated by a sincere concern for your indiscretion, and were really going up to town with a view of entreating Louisa's forgiveness, he would not have been so rash: "But," says he, ‘my heart was in the match—and to find every thing broken off while I was flattering my imagination with the happiness my family was to posses—to find the rupture also so dishonourable to us; and to think that a sister, who was my principal pride, should be guilty of such a crime, made me absolutely mad; so that I almost wonder how I refrained from shooting Sir Robert through the head before I even offered him the choice of a pistol.’

Notwithstanding the colonel's seeming frankness, I could easily see he was secretly dissatisfied that he had not been consulted by his father in the conclusion of our accommodation. When the old gentlemen told him what he had consented to, he was extremely grave, and observed, ‘That to be sure it was better to settle matters any how, than to think of going farther with family resentments.’ The tone and look with which he delivered this were visibly sarcastic; and I could, however, readily perceive he somewhat disconcerted his father. We took no notice of the expression, however; lady Haversham thinking with me, that those may be allowed to complain a little who feel a great deal. Dinner being ready by this time, we took our leave of the colonel, and sat down in a very sociable manner to a very good repast. Your sister was all life; and Mrs. Mildmay, who has been a very fine woman, was animated with a chearfulness that really filled me with pleasure; as, from the character lady Haversham gave me of her worth, I could not but share very sensibly in her afflictions.

In short, we were all extremely happy but Miss Beauclerk. This young lady, who ought to be the gayest person in company, was remarkably thoughtful and reserved; she scarcely touched a morsel of any thing, and even more than once let a sigh escape her pretty audible: she is a very fine girl indeed, Harold; and, if she is but half as good as she is handsome, it would be ten thousand pities that any thing should give her the least uneasiness. You cannot conceive how excessively I am taken with her—there is so much real good sense, so much genuine delicacy, and so much true benevolence in every word and action, that was it possible for me ever to marry a second time, or possible for her to look on such an old fellow, I really believe she would be the woman in the world whom I should first think of—but what have I do with the sex! In my youth I lost the woman of my heart—When I last saw her she was just such another young creature as this Miss Beauclerk; all beauty and beneficence, all sensibility and love: Miss Beauclerk has in fact her very form, her very face, the same irresistable sweetness of voice, and elegance of manner which once distinguished my Nancy; and which, though long since buried in the grave, have been continually present to my imagination. Be good natured, Harold, and bear with me a little on this tender subject—You know I seldom break out, and therefore may now and then be entitled to a little indulgence, especially as I am always so ready to put up with your everlasting impertinence.

The ladies retiring a little after dinner, and leaving Mr. Mildmay and I to chat over a bottle of Burgundy, I took the liberty to make some enquiry about Miss Beauclerk, assuring the old gentleman that I was strongly prepossessed in her favour.— ‘Why truly, Mr. Melmoth,’ returned he, ‘I don't know a sweeter, better tempered girl in the world than this young lady; my Louisa and she contracted an intimacy at the boarding school, when they were both very young, and have ever since been remarkably distinguished for the closeness of their friendship; the one never knowing joy or a sorrow in which the other did not immediately enhance the satisfaction, or mitigate the distress. I am sure, in the late unhappy affair, my daughter's misfortune affected Miss Beauclerk as closely as if Louisa had actually been her sister—During the time of her being here, she has applied herself with such assiduity to comfort and take care of my poor wife, that I consider her as a principal instrument in Mrs. Mildmay's preservation—Her mother, Sir, lost her husband while Harriot was yet an infant at the breast; he died it seems in the East-Indies, and left the good lady in such very slender circumstances, that, had not a relation of her own, who died also about the same time, left her a fortune of 20000l. in the funds, she must have gone into some little way of business for the maintenance of herself and her daughter. Upon the interest of this sum she keeps a carriage, and has a most delightful retirement about thirty miles off—What is extremely remarkable, is, that, though she was not much above twenty when her husband died, and when she came into possession of this fortune, yet, so far from acting like the generality of women, and listening to the addresses of every coxcomb who might have designs either upon her person or her purse, she retired immediately from London to the spot I have been speaking of, and there continued ever since, confining her visits within a very narrow circle, and dedicating her attention to the education of her daughter. Within a mile of her house my Louisa was at school when a child; and the intimacy between the little ones naturally creating an acquaintance between the parents, Mrs. Beauclerk and our family have been upon the most unreserved footing of friendship these sixteen years; and, I dare say, shall continue in friendship till the end of our lives, as there is but one circumstance which can possibly disturb the harmony of our correspondence.’

As it would have been extremely rude in a stranger to ask what this circumstance was, I did not interrupt Mr. Mildmay; nevertheless I was lucky enough, in the naturally communicativeness of his temper, to have my curiosity gratified; his heart was now open, and he considered me as a good natured friendly man who might be trusted with a secret; drawing his chair therefore closer to mine, and lowering his voice, he proceeded to unbosom himself to the following purport.

‘You must know, Mr. Melmoth, that, during the intimacy between Mrs. Beauclerk's family and mine, I have discovered that my son entertains very favourable sentiments of her daughter; and between ourselves I can see plainly enough that her daughter is no way disinclined to my son. I have been a young fellow myself, Mr. Melmoth; and, in my time—you understand me—but that is nothing to the purpose—As I was saying, this mutual good opinion between Harry and Miss Beauclerk, is a thing which gives me no little uneasiness—the young lady to be sure possesses a very high place in my esteem, and I don't know a woman in the kingdom whom I should be better pleased to have for a daughter; but the misfortune is she does not carry sufficient weight of metal, and I have some family views in my head, which, though I am pretty well in the world, require a considerable addition of fortune. My house, Mr. Melmoth, is a very antient one; there have been more than two peerages in it; and I have myself some expectation of a title. Now, Sir, as the support of such a dignity cannot allow me to marry my son to a woman of little fortune; on this account I am greatly concerned that any secret correspondence should be carried on between him and Miss Beauclerk. I should be very sorry to oppose his inclinations, or to wound her sensibility; but you know the raising of one's family is a very essential point; and that, ridiculous as a coronet may appear to some people, it is nevertheless entitled to priviledges, which are far from being disagreeable—This is not all—a noble lord in the neighbourhood, who is able to give his daughter a prodigious sum of money, has lately intimated, a desire of uniting his family with mine; and I think so very well of the affair, that I mentioned it yesterday to my son, when I found him launching out into some passionate encomiums on Miss Beauclerk.’ —Mr. Mildmay pausing in this place, I could not help observing, that, though the plan which was thus laid down for the aggrandization of his family, might in itself be extremely right, nevertheless, if his son entertained a cordial affection for the young lady, the possession of her hand might be more conducive to his happiness than the possession of a title; and that therefore it might be difficult to make him sacrifice the interest of his heart even to gratify the laudable ambition of his father—But the old gentleman stopped me short, by declaring, He believed the colonel would do any thing to oblige him. "However," says he, ‘if I should be unhappily disappointed of his obedience in the matter we have been talking of, I know how to punish his obstinacy when I come to dispose of my fortune.’ Here our conversation ended, for the ladies coming in we were obliged to talk of something else; though I should have told you, that Mr. Mildmay more than once insinuated a fear, that his lady secretly approved of the passion subsisting between Miss Beauclerk and the colonel.

I could moralize in this place, Sir Robert, on the preposterous behaviour of those fathers who are willing to give their children every thing but happiness. Reflections of this nature, however, are too common to be useful; and it would be just as new to tell you, that the parts of a day consist of twenty-four hours, as to tell you that the very fondness of such fathers is the most insupportable of all tyrannies. Poor Miss Beauclerk—and is the tawdry gewgaw of a coronet to be put in competition with the charms of exalted virtue, elevated sense, and sweetness ineffable! But love would be too exquisite an enjoyment, Harold, had not Providence wisely thrown these bars in our way, and tempered the inexpressible raptures which it bestows with some occasional mixtures of infelicity.

Lady Haversham just now called me aside, and hinted that she had spoken to Mrs. Mildmay relative to some expressions which Louisa had dropped in your sister's last interview with her, indicating the most positive determination of never seeing you more. Mrs. Mildmay is to write to her on this subject, and therefore she can but little doubt of Louisa's altering her determination; the resolution of her family in your favour was the principal point to gain; and since we could work upon their pride, there can be no doubt of influencing her sensibility. A woman, Harold, can forgive every thing where she really loves; the ladies have a softness about them which turns even contempt into kindness, and gives the tenderness of their hearts a constant superiority over the goodness of their understandings. I should be sorry, however, that all coxcombs were for reducing this precept into practice; as we have already but too many fools among the fair who are desirous of stamping their weakness with the immediate image of destiny, and solicitous to call that an absolute decree of fate which arises from their own apparent want of resolution.

I have been this moment at a consultation of colonel Mildmay's surgeons, and have the very great pleasure of informing you that he is entirely out of danger.—You may therefore, by the next Helvoetsluys packet, make a trip to Harwich, since at the utmost it can't be above twelve hours from Rotterdam to Helvoet. If you should stop at the Hague, pray call at Fitzpatrick's in the Hoogstraat; who is as modest, as sensible, and as well behaved a man as I ever saw at the head of a tavern; and who, without mentioning any body's name, will treat you with the utmost civility: if you know the man already my character will be needless; if you do not, you will find a very good house, and so far be obliged to me for this accommodation.

As we have done our business at Mildmay Hall, your sister and I shall set out for London, in order to wait upon Louisa, and acquaint her with the determination of her father. Mrs. Mildmay has a letter to send by us to her daughter, which will put a finishing hand to the reconciliation; so that, Bob, you may look upon the whole affair as concluded to your wish; yet it is ten to one that, now happiness is again within your reach, but what you strive to start difficulties, and endeavour to destroy all that lady Haversham and I have been labouring to bring about with such an unremitting degree of fedulity.

Take care, however, dear Harold, how you act at this time; and do not idly play the prodigal with your own happiness—Youth can never excuse a bad action, though it may extenuate the indiscretion of a foolish one; and the man who is twice guilty of the same crime, is in much more danger of making himself abhorred, than in rendering others wretched or contemptible; take the hint therefore, Bob, and believe me, with the utmost cordiality,

Your real Friend, C. MELMOTH.

LETTER XVI. Mr. MELMOTH, in Continuation, to Sir ROBERT HAROLD.

Dear HAROLD,

IF you have not yet set out from Rotterdam, you may as well continue where you are, or go to any other part of the continent which is best adapted to your inclination; England is not a place which I would have you return to yet awhile, if you really love Miss Mildmay, and would be concerned to find her actually allied to infamy and prostitution.

Your sister and I arrived in town this morning; and, unable to contain the satisfaction with which our bosoms naturally swelled at your approaching felicity; we immediately drove to Louisa's, with a view of dispelling her unhappiness, by acquainting her with the fortunate reconciliation effected between her and her family—But judge our astonishment, when, instead of meeting with her, Mrs. Darnel came down stairs with an air of the utmost affliction, and informed us that Miss Mildmay had eloped in a post-chaise and six, with a gentleman richly dressed, the preceding evening— ‘Having no authority to watch her motions,’ said Mrs. Darnel, ‘and imagining from her specious air of penitence, if I even had, that every attention of that nature would be utterly unnecessary, I went to hear a lecture at our parish-church after tea, never once dreaming that during my absence she would think of running away from a house into which she had entered a voluntary visitor, and in which there was no likelihood of her receiving the smallest disgust—You may, however, easily guess my consternation, when my maid Jenny, the moment I came home, ran up and informed me that Miss Mildmay had gone off with a gentleman in a postchaise. I naturally concluded, that, had it been any relation, I should have received some notice of her intended departure; and therefore, as she went away in so unaccountable a manner, I as naturally ascribed her flight to some preconcerted design; especially as Jenny informed me, that a gentleman in brown and gold had for two or three nights been seen to hang about the house, and to peep in at the windows with a degree of breeding much below the elegance of his appearance—Notwithstanding these unpromising accounts, I nevertheless sat up till four o'clock, rather hoping than expecting the unfortunate young lady's return; but, alas! I might have sat up till this moment, without reaping the least advantage from my anxiety or my fatigue; she never once approached the house, and which way she has gone I am by no means able to conjecture.’

And this, Sir Robert, is the end of all our expectations. For my own part, strenuously solicitous as I was but a few hours ago in her favour, I now sincerely congratulate with you on your fortunate escape; I now begin to think you were right in rejecting her from the first, and am perfectly satisfied that the error, which I thought the effect of her partiality for you, was nothing more than the result of her own constitution. Lady Haversham, however, will not subscribe to my opinion of her levity, tho' she knows not any cause to which her elopement can be so probably attributed—Nevertheless, she thinks all enquiry after her needless; and almost wishes that she had not taken the journey into Oxfordshire— ‘For this new disappointment, Mr. Melmoth,’ says she, ‘will come with additional weight upon her family; and, if it does not entirely kill the poor mother, it will certainly drive her distracted.’

Mrs. Darnel, who appears to be a decent well behaved woman, notwithstanding your suspicions, is to send down an account of Louisa's elopement to Mildmay Hall. What consequences it may produce there I know not; but of this I am certain, that you have every reason in nature to be happy in the timely discovery of her levity—Had such a discovery been made after your marriage with her, I suppose the result would have been her immediate death, and your certain execution—You would have sacrificed her instantly to your fury; and your life would have been the penalty of your rashness. Return thanks, therefore, to Providence for having such a fortunate escape, and do not meanly regret the loss of a woman whom you know to be guilty, when you could so readily give her up at a time that you thought her innocence, in a manner, unquestionable. But you see, Harold, that innocence, like contrition, may be easily affected; and that those may seem the most strenuous votaries of virtue, who are in fact the least unhappy at its loss.

If any thing new should occur before you think of returning home, you need not doubt of my readiness to communicate it. Lady Haversham is extremely affected with Louisa's behaviour, but attempts very little, if any thing, in her defence; she sends her best wishes to you by this letter; and desires me to assure you, that she is as much your affectionate sister as I am

Your faithful Friend, C. MELMOTH.

LETTER XVII. Miss HARRIOT BEAUCLERK to her Mother.

Dear MAMA,

A DISTRESS of a more piercing nature than ever has fallen upon this unhappy family. You will scarcely conceive, and I have scarcely power to inform you; but my wretched friend Miss Mildmay, while lady Haversham was down here, as I told you in my last letter, settling every thing to our wishes, and restoring every body to peace, eloped from Mrs. Darnel's, in London, with a strange gentleman, in a chariot and six, while her cousin was at church; and where she is gone there is no likelihood of discovering; Mrs. Darnel's account of this affair reached us this morning; and from the pain which I know your own worthy heart will feel on this melancholy occasion, you may easily imagine what an effect it had on her poor father and mother; upon her brother and myself. I would, if possible, have kept it from the colonel, as I thought the knowledge of so fatal an accident might materially retard his recovery—But Mr. Mildmay's rage was too violent, and the venerable lady's anguish too excessive, to admit of such a salutary secrecy; so that, in less than five minutes, he was made acquainted with the minutest circumstances; and the agitation of his mind has been so prodigious ever since, that his physicians begin to be apprehensive about the consequences.

Indeed, my dear mama, I am, inexpressibly wretched from the part which I am to act in the general calamity—every body turns to me for consolation,— when my own bosom is torn with a thousand distresses—and expects that I should be able to administer comfort, when I am equally, if not more, miserable myself. You, my dearest mama, must sooth my afflictions—You must enable me, by the magnanimity of your example, and the wisdom of your advice, to bear up against this unexpected stroke of misfortune, which now falls on me with an aggravated heaviness, as it comes in the hour of my utmost security, and invades me in the most unsuspecting moment of my hopes—I was feasting my imagination, madam, with numberless prospects of future felicity; and preparing my heart for nothing but happiness and you—When, alas! the golden scene is instantly ravished from my eyes, and the whole void as instantly filled up with disappointment and despair.

When I consider this unaccountable step of Louisa's, I am lost in perplexity and doubt—Mrs. Darnel's letter acquaints us that she went away of her own accord; that she was not carried off by force, but that she absolutely eloped; and the maid even describes the gentleman with whom she went, as a tall handsome man, drest in brown, richly laced with gold; she says also, that he was a very fair man, and wore a bob wig. All this is mighty odd—I have known her from her infancy up; have shared every secret of her heart, and never conceived that she entertained the least affection for any body but Sir Robert Harold—Him it cannot be, as by Mr. Melmoth's account he set out for Holland the moment after the unhappy duel between him and the colonel; and besides, he has a complexion remarkably black, and wears his own hair. When I put all these things together, my dear mama, I am astonished—Louisa would hardly go off with a man for whom she felt no affection; and the whole tenor of her life has been so generously frank, and open; and so repugnant to every thing like hypocrisy or artifice; that I could stake my existence Sir Robert is the only man for whom she cherished a favourable sentiment—Besides, madam, if you were to see the letter which she sent her mother, you would be satisfied, that, notwithstanding her unhappy lapse with that gentleman, she is infinitely above the appearance of dissimulation—Her error is there acknowleged in such forcible terms; and lamented with such a sense of unextenuating penitence, that her faults almost render her amiable, and the only emotions which we feel are those of pity and admiration.

For these reasons, I am positive my amiable friend can be no way depraved in her principles; yet, on the other hand, Mrs. Darnel is a woman of known sobriety and character; is received among people of the first distinction, in consequence of her good behaviour; and she mentions Louisa's elopement with so positive a degree of certainty, that there can be no possibility of disputing the fact—God grant that this contradiction may be happily reconciled. My own soul is not dearer in my estimation than the happiness of Miss Mildmay; and I don't know that I could be able to survive any instance of her premediated unworthiness—Premeditated unworthiness! No, my ever amiable Louisa, you are incapable of a deliberate guilt; and the bare supposition was a blasphemy against the purity of our mutual affection—The heart which can question the virtue of a friend till it argues upon absolute conviction, is a traitor to the cause of amity; the most alarming appearance should never shake the confidence of our friendship; and though, in every thing else, a nice combination of accidents may justify a doubt, yet here we ought never to hesitate upon circumstances, nor to lessen in our regards till conjecture is evidently lost, in certainty.

These arguments, my dear mama, I have repeatedly urged in the present state of things to the good Mrs. Mildmay—But she shakes her head when I want her to reduce the precept into practice; and, while the large drops course one another down her venerable cheeks, she tells me the sentiment sounds prettily enough upon the ear, but is little calculated to convince the understanding. I wish, my dear mama, you could come over to us; there never was a greater necessity for your supporting presence than now—Mrs. Mildmay seems in a very declining way, and her situation alarms me the more strongly, as she does every thing in her power to put on an air of the utmost composure and serenity.

As you, my dear mama, are one of those excellent women who bring up a daughter rather in a state of respectful familiarity with you, than endeavour to establish an authority by keeping her in a distant degree of abject subjection—As you are generous enough to receive those instances of confidence as a favour which you can command as a right, and can blend all the tenderness of the parent with all the freedom of the friend, I am enabled to talk to you on a subject which few young women ever care to mention to a mother, though a mother's ear is the properest by much for a business of such importance.

You have often, my dear madam, kindly hinted your apprehension, that the merits of colonel Mildmay were making too deep an impression on my heart; and that I should by all means resist every impulse of a tender nature, in his favour, as there was but too much reason to apprehend that the disparity of our fortunes would be a material bar to our union, notwithstanding the harmony subsisting so long between our two families. Your advice, my ever honoured mama, I was convinced was perfectly just; nevertheless—but why should I think of concealing any thing from my best friend—from the only person in the world who by nature and inclination must be the readiest to rejoice at my felicity, or to participate in my distress—Yes, madam, I must own, in spite of all your judicious precautions, my heart was insensibly engaged, and I loved before I was aware that the colonel had any other place in my affections, than what was due to the brother of Louisa—You, madam, I am sure, must have seen, upon several occasions, what an awkward constraint I have laboured under when I have been in his company—Your penetration could not be eluded, though I then fondly thought nobody could see into my sentiments, and piqued myself upon the address with which I behaved in so very critical a situation.

Indeed, the respectful tenderness with which the colonel all along treated me, contributed not a little to raise him in my esteem—Upon a thousand little occasions he gave me proof of his good opinion, though he never made me the most distant tendre of his heart; but judging of his sentiments by my own; or possibly believing, because I wished it might be so, that he really saw me with more than a common degree of friendship; I suffered the flame imperceptibly to spread, and was solicitous only of concealing my weakness from his observation; but matters, madam, have, at last, come to something of a crisis, and I have the satisfaction of knowing that my tenderness is at least returned, whether I am ever blest with the object of it or not.

The second day after the colonel's coming down wounded, before he was yet pronounced out of danger, he sent his compliments to me, and begged I would favour him with a visit, as he had something of importance to acquaint me with. The light in which I was considered by every body in the family, joined to the nature of his situation, would have made it affectation to the last degree, had I not immediately complied with his request—I therefore went, and the attendants being ordered out of the room, he begged of me to seat myself close to the bedside; where, taking hold of my hand, and desiring I would not be offended at what he was going to say, he went on to the following purport.

The distresses of my mind and the anguish of my wound, rendering my recovery extremely precarious, I have presumed, Miss Beauclerk, to beg your ear upon a subject, which, though very near my heart, I would not, for particular reasons, enter upon, was there a certainty either that medicine or time could do me any essential benefit. As it is therefore doubtful how long I may be in a capacity of delivering myself intelligibly, I have determined to seize the present opportunity of opening my mind, since, was I to leave the world without telling you how dear you have always been to my soul, my parting moments would be imbittered with an anxiety that must render the natural gloominess of death inconceivably afflicting—O! Miss Beauclerk, from the first moment I beheld you, young as we both were, I loved you—Every day, as you rose into perfection, I felt an encrease of passion, though I strove to conceal my sentiments very carefully from the world, as I saw but too many difficulties in the way of our union, had I even merit enough to solicit with a likelihood of success. In short, madam, I found my father's ambition was utterly unfavourable to my hopes—And I saw that you had too much dignity of disposition to come into a family, that would look upon your alliance in a disagreeable light; or shew a less regard to the invaluable requisites of beauty and virtue, than to the infinitely meaner circumstances of ancestry and fortune.—These, madam, were the motives of my silence; and silence, however mortifying in my situation, was, at least, the most prudent part, if it was not the most generous. I have always looked with detestation on those men, who, though they were conscious of some family consideration that must prevent them from accepting the honour of a lady's hand, were nevertheless insolent enough, or cruel enough, to aim at engaging her affections—On these accounts, I say, madam, had I even reason to think you would have blest me with a reciprocal esteem, I had avoided the presumption, or the baseness, of a declaration; since, as there was no prospect of leading you into any certain state of felicity, it would be infamy itself to think of plunging you into distress.

O! mama, what a mind has this man!—Here, however, he was obliged to rest himself a little, while the only reply I could make was with my tears.

After a pause of some moments, he resumed the affecting subject, and thus continued his discourse— ‘I do not now, my ever adorable Miss Beauclerk, meanly intend, by an address to your generosity, to make any interest with your heart—Your esteem I should be proud of possessing; but thus hovering, as I may say, on the verge of eternity, I should be sorry, for your own sake, was I honoured with your love—May that, madam, be reserved for some fortunate man, whose merits are sufficient to justify your choice, and whose situation will not create any impediments in the road of your happiness.—Had I been destined for such a blessing!—but why do I harrow up my own reflection, or wound your sensibility—I know the ineffable sweetness of that temper, and have seen numberless occasions where a tale of calamity has deluged it in tears.—From an ungenerous lamentation, I shall therefore proceed to business; and, if I can but gain your acquiescence to a last request, the hand of death will lye light upon my brows, and I shall go out of the world in a comparative state of content.’

O! my dear mama, how I trembled at the solemnity, the tenderness of his manner—the dangerous extremity to which I saw him reduced. In short, as he himself phrased it, very happily the distresses of his mind, and the anguish of his wound, interested me so much in his favour, that I never thought of interrupting him; but continued one passive hand all the time in his, the other being employed in holding up my handkerchief to my eyes, which were by this time quite red, and swollen with my emotion—After another pause to recover strength he thus went on.

The request which I have to make, my dear Miss Beauclerk, may, perhaps, be inconsistent with your very refined notions of delicacy—but consider that some indulgences are due to your friends, and that I am entitled to your good wishes, though I have no claim to your love; by these wishes therefore, by the generosity of your temper, by all your regards in this world, and by all your hopes in the next, I conjure you to oblige me——O! Harriot, I would die for you; shew me therefore one little mark of esteem; and, as a token of your friendship, only accept of this paper—It is an instrument which has been executed above two years; and, by all that's holy, whether you accept of it or not, it shall never be revoked.

O! good God, my dear mama, it was his will, his—will—had the universe been offered me I could not touch it—my sensibility now became audible

I quite sobbed, yet, scarcely knowing what I did, I disengaged my hand from his, and, falling down upon my knees by the bed-side, cried out, ‘O spare me, Sir,—spare me—this is too much—indeed it is.’ —At the same time sinking my face upon the bed cloaths, wholly unable to look up, as if I was conscious of some manifest impropriety—To be sure, madam, it was very wrong in me to let him see how much I was distressed—But what could I do—Consider his tenderness for me, and then think of his melancholy situation. In short, my ever revered mama, consider also that I had sentiments of a softer nature than gratitude or friendship to occasion my agitation, and then you will be much more apt to pity than to condemn it.

The colonel, madam, seemed greatly affected by my emotion; and, by endeavouring to assist me up, occasioned me to rise considerably sooner than what I would have done had he made use of the most earnest entreaties; for the moment I found him exerting himself to that purpose I recollected his wound, and was instantly in my former situation, notwithstanding my cheeks were visibly studded over with tears; and notwithstanding my perturbation was so excessive as to furnish a man of his fine sense with some reasonable suspicions of the cause—Be this as it may, he pressed my hand to his lips with an air of inexpressible tenderness; and, apologizing for the uneasiness which he had given me, he continued to enforce his request with so much vehemence, and to declare in so positive a manner that he could never enjoy a moment's peace unless I gratified him in this point, that I told him I would consider the matter a little farther, and give him an answer in two or three days— ‘Two or three days, Harriot!’ replied he with a mixture of sorrow and surprize, ‘Two or three days! Suppose that in this time I should be taken off—Your answer then will be a little of the latest, and I shall go out of the world without my principal consolation—The thing and the time require an immediate determination; and my reason for mentioning it to you at all, is to prevent the rashness of your generosity.—I know that, should I die without exacting a sacred promise from you to enjoy yourself this last little mark of my affection, you would think it an indispensable obligation to give every thing back to my family—But my family is already too rich for its own happiness; and, if I am to be removed, will have still less occasion for its extraordinary opulence—Promise, therefore, Harriot, solemnly promise, in the presence of that God, who sees with how aking a sense of tenderness I love you, that you will, according to the true purport of my request, accept of this testament—In it I have not forgot some proper remembrances for my father and mother; and, because I knew you would receive more pleasure on that account, I have not ordered any erasure to be made in an article that relates to the wretched Louisa. Talking, my dear Miss Beauclerk, I find becomes inconvenient to me—Indulge me therefore at once, and consider, that to be generous, upon some occasions, may be the highest instance of barbarity.’

Whether I was right or wrong, my dear mama, you must determine; but, unable to resist his solicitations any longer, I took the paper with a reluctant hand; and, in my confusion, putting it into my bosom instead of my pocket, the colonel seemed transported at the action, kissed my hand a thousand times, and declared he could now quit the world with content. All the time I was sinking under a load of equal awkwardness and anxiety, till the surgeons happily coming in, gave me an opportunity of retiring, and unlading the fullness of my heart in a fresh shower of tears.

The good Mrs. Mildmay, knowing that I had been a considerable while in the colonel's apartment, came up to my room; and, finding my eyes extremely red, she threw her kind arms round my neck, and calling me by the tenderest appellations you can conceive, told me she had been long sensible that her son was passionately in love with me; and that she also had been long sensible, notwithstanding my delicate reserve, (so she was pleased to say) that I considered him with an eye of affection— ‘But my sweet girl, my dear Harriot,’ continued she, finding me distressed and astonished at this information, ‘don't imagine I have seen this mutual regard with any other regret, but my fear, that Mr. Mildmay would not be propitious to the happiness of his son: for my own part, I am so convinced of your worth, that the colonel has an additional share in my regard on account of his attachment to you; and, could I but prevail upon his father, I should still have a daughter no less dear in my estimation than the miserable Louisa—But, my love, this family—pride so runs away with my poor Mr. Mildmay's good sense, that I despair of making him sacrifice the suggestions of his vanity to the sentiments of his reason: his mind has been always taken up with an idea of making his children great; and, so he could gain them an empty title, he payed but little consideration to what might secure their felicity.’

And thus, my dear mama, are matters at present situated; and thus, all the time that I have been supposing my affection for the colonel a secret, this excellent woman has seen into the most latent recesses of my heart, and even kindly sympathized with my anxiety. You may be sure, madam, that, after this excessive goodness had a little emboldened me, I made her acquainted with every circumstance which passed with the colonel, though I scarcely knew how to mention the affair of the will, as I thought she might fancy me on that account an enemy, though an involuntary one, to the interest of her family—But Mrs. Mildmay, madam, is a counterpart of yourself; she has a soul incapable of listening to any little considerations, and observes the practice of generosity too much in her own conduct not to love it in other people's—As I went on with my story she was gradually affected—her heart laboured—and her eye rose in perfect unison to mine; and, upon the conclusion of my narrative, "Harriot," says she, ‘the more I know you, the more I wish you for my daughter—My son has pleased me exceedingly by his conduct on this occasion; and I think you would have acted rather below the dignity of your character, had you not condescended to oblige him; but, notwithstanding the little likelihood of present appearances, I have yet a dawn of hope which beams across my bosom, and assures me you shall one day be happy with the colonel—Had the unfortunate Louisa—But why do I afflict myself with recollecting a creature who now has really dishonoured us—Her scandalous elopement, in the very moment of her seeming penitence, argues an uncommon turpitude of sentiment; and shews that her first indiscretion was not so much the consequence of an extravagant tenderness for her lover, as the result of her natural depravity. God will, I hope, however, forgive the unhappy wretch her guilt, and mercifully incline to swell the enormity of her crime, by putting down her death to my account.’

My unhappy Louisa!—You may be sure, my dear mama, I did what I possibly could to alleviate the distresses of the venerable Mrs. Mildmay, at the same time that I said every thing which could extenuate the seeming misbehaviour of my friend; the good old lady seemed willing to catch at any twig of probability which might keep her hopes entirely from sinking; but, alas! the fatal force of appearances rendering the very strongest quite unequal to the task, she changed the conversation, and asked me if I had any scruple to shew her the colonel's will—I replied, that I could have no scruple to shew her any thing, as I was sensible she could never have a desire that was not founded on the strictest propriety; and therefore immediately produced it from my bosom— "My dear," says she, ‘you are very good; and yet be assured I should not make this request on any account, was I not convinced that you wish as cordially as myself that the testator's recovery may prevent the will from being ever carried into execution.’

Indeed, madam, (returned I)—"Harriot," interrupted she, ‘let minds that doubt each other's candour break out into professions of regard, and sentimental exclamations; it is below us, however, my love, to enter into a vindication of our motives, since any argument to prove them just would be tacitly to acknowlege that it was possible for them to be otherwise. We will not, my dearest girl, even wrong the rectitude of our own principles by implication; nor be the first to deny ourselves that merit which has been hitherto granted us by every body else.’ —So saying, she opened the will, which is very short, containing little more than a general reason for the colonel's appointing me his heir; and leaving a miniature of himself set in diamonds to his mother; his horses, arms, and watch, to his father; his library to Louisa; a diamond ring to yourself; some trifling remembrances to other friends; and his cloaths and about two hundred pounds among the servants.

Short as the will was, my dear mama, I could scarcely stand the shock of reading it; there is something so awful in a will, you know, even where one's self is not concerned; but when it is made by a person for whom one entertains an esteem; when a partiality is absolutely shewn in one's own favour; and when there is another person by, who is infinitely more entitled to a preference; it must be inexpressibly distressing to us if we are not wholly divested of sentiment and delicacy. You cannot, therefore, imagine my confusion, when I found the colonel had left me two thousand pounds in money; the magnificent service of plate, which had been his godfather, Harley's; and the Buckinghamshire estate, which is seven hundred pounds a year, and which was formerly his great aunt Ingoldsby's. Mrs. Mildmay saw my anxiety, and kindly pitied it; restoring me the paper, and acknowleging she had been to blame in suffering her curiosity to carry her so far— ‘But, my dear Harriot,’ says she, ‘a mother will pay but little attention to decorum in any thing which concerns the conduct of her children.’ After this, we had a long conversation about the colonel, in which Mrs. Mildmay seemed so highly pleased with his behaviour to me, that I was somewhat re-assured, and had fresh opportunities of admiring the greatness of her generosity. Notwithstanding this, the circumstances of the will rendered me excessive awkward, till we were flattered with some certain hopes of the colonel's recovery. From that moment I breathed a free-er air, and considered myself as less an interloper in the family; he is now, thank God, in a very fine way, and has borne the fresh shock of his sister's abrupt departure, with a much greater share of fortitude than could be expected.

And now, my dear mama, how do you do, and what do you say to the boldness of your girl, in thus presuming to talk to you upon such a point as the foregoing subject? Do you condemn her of temerity, or approve her for candour; do you imagine that she has grown forward on your indulgence, or do you think that she has made only a proper use of your tenderness, and treated you with the openness which is doubly your due from the closeness of your relation, and the greatness of your indulgence? I wish I knew your sentiments; for, as you have always studied to anticipate every desire of mine, I should be a monster indeed if I hesitated but an instant to comply with your inclinations. The whole family here, my dear mama, are impatient to see you—Mrs. Mildmay longs, she says, to talk with you about the colonel, and you know who—the old gentleman repeatedly tells me, that the value of a friend is only to be experienced in the day of adversity; and the colonel hopes that nothing at the Hall has given you any cause of disgust. Come to us then, dear madam, for your company is greatly wanted; and by none, you may believe, so much as your daughter: the colonel's tenderness oppresses me, the amiable Louisa's fate distracts me, and Mrs. Mildmay's goodness is insupportable. Come then, madam, to her rescue; the arms of maternal affection are always fraught with peace; and, if they bring comfort in proportion to their benignity, who is so likely to receive the balm of consolation as

Your ever dutiful and affectionate Daughter HAR. BEAUCLERK.

P.S. When I write to my dear mama I never know where to leave off—I should have told you that Butler, a very sensible fellow, who is servant to the colonel, has been sent away to London to make a minute enquiry at Mrs. Darnel's, in relation to Louisa—God grant the honest man may succeed; for, if friendship is liable to be attended with such anguish as I feel upon this dear but unfortunate girl's account, I must, for the future, avoid every acquaintance with the most amiable part of my sex, for fear of being plunged into continual calamities.

LETTER XVIII. Sir ROBERT HAROLD to CHARLES MELMOTH, Esq.

VIENNA, August 2.

IT is in vain, my dear Melmoth, I find, for your unfortunate friend to continue any longer abroad: the change of country in no manner tends to alleviate the distresses of his bosom, nor erases in the least the form of that amiable wretch, that Miss Mildmay, from his recollection. If possible, she gives him every moment an additional pang; and, till he becomes utterly deprived both of memory and sense, he must feel the sharpest affliction on her account.

In reality, Charles, though it is now twelve months since the infamous flight of that unfortunate girl, I am rather more wretched than ever—She is continually present to my imagination; and I find, in spite of my pride and my reason, that she holds an absolute empire over my heart, and that I must actually cease to live before I can actually cease to love her. Don't despise me, however, my dear Melmoth—I blush for my own baseness, in suffering the abandoned woman even to steal a single instant upon my thoughts; but, alas! the more I would banish her, the more forcible she returns; and I am distracted with a perpetual round of tenderness and shame; of pity and indignation: wherever I go I am torn with a variety of opposite passions; and, to use the language of poor Sciolto, ‘All within is anarchy and uproar."’

How, Melmoth, when I received your first letter at Rotterdam, did my soul exult in the expectation of being completely happy with Louisa! The most distant insinuation of that delicacy which originally caused all our misfortunes, was then argued down into silence; and the universal joy which I thought would flow from a reconciliation, added to the tumultuous tide of transport that swelled about my heart from a still more natural cause, gave me an absolute foretaste of elysium.—But Providence thought proper, by an accident which I considered, at that time, as the greatest of all calamities, to snatch me from the smiling destruction, and graciously counteracted the warmth of my wishes to preserve me from everlasting disgrace—O! Melmoth, had I been married to her before this fortunate discovery of her infamy—think what would have been the consequence!—To the remotest confine of the world I had pursued her; and, as Othello says,

Had all her hairs been lives, my great revenge

Had stomach for them all!

In fact, Charles, I should have proceeded upon some immediate act of desperation; and, perhaps, after I had sacrificed her to the justice of my resentment, it is more than probable I had been tempted to lay violent hands on myself.

You see, however, my dear friend, from the conduct of this unhappy wretch, how much reason I had for supposing that the woman who deviates from the rules of virtue with one man, will have very little scruple to indulge the licentious turn of her disposition with another; you see what reason I had to set Louisa's crime down to the account of genuine constitution, instead of attributing it to the weakness of an extravagant love—But your women of strong passions, Charles, are continually falling in love; every fresh object inspires a fresh desire; and when they have once conquered that exalted delicacy of sentiment, which is the principal bulwark of their honour, they give an unbounded license to enjoyment; and imagine that, since they have been familiar with one person, there can be no addition to their guilt by an equal familiarity with all. Thus, instead of an endeavour to recover the hallowed paths of innocence, they make a single indiscretion an excuse for the commission of a thousand; and indulge every rising gust of inclination, by arguing themselves into a belief that it cannot in the least increase the infamy of their characters.

You pleased me extremely by your repeated accounts of colonel's Mildmay's perfect recovery. Poor fellow, he now sees for what a worthless woman he ventured his life; and those mad-headed puppies that are for resenting the ruin of a sister, impatient to be ruined, and one who places the principal of all felicities in her absolute destruction, will, I hope, be warned by Louisa's conduct, from hazarding their throats whenever a profligate hussey thinks proper to throw away her reputation. Is it not, however, surprizing, that, in all this time, notwithstanding the most diligent search of the Mildmay house, no account whatsoever can be heard of their delicate daughter? But I suppose she is in some secluded corner of the kingdom, wallowing in the stye of unbounded prostitution, and even entertaining some underbred scoundrel of a keeper with the pangs which her infamous flight has thrust into the bosom of her miserable family—O! for some quick, some executing curse to strike the strumpet and her paramour this moment to the center, though I was to follow them the next—Perhaps, Charles, she is diverting him with a ludicrous representation of your friend; and laughing with him this moment at my stupidity in once believing her a woman of virtue—Perhaps, my manner is mimicked to a circle of intoxicated fox-hunters; and, perhaps, a whole table of brutal country squires are at this very instant roaring at the seriousness and solemnity of my first declaration—O! that I was near her—that I could reach her prostituted heart—By the great God of heaven it would give me more pleasure to tear it from her bosom, than to receive the empire of the whole universe; and I am not sure but I would forfeit my hopes of everlasting salvation if I could but commit a piece-meal murder on her villain, and make him feel but one half, one fiftieth part of that hell which his possession of her has kindled in this breast, and which is at this moment furiously blazing for revenge.

Yet, Charles, what have I to do with this abandoned woman—what is her infamy to me?—I'll talk no more of her—I'll think no more of her—I'll stab her idea to the heart if it ever rises again to my imagination—I'll—Alas! my dear Melmoth,—I can talk of nothing else—I can think of nothing else; and base, polluted, prostitute as she is—I will not answer, but what she might yet find it possible to argue me into an opinion of her innocence; and persuade me, even against the sense of my own conviction, into such a belief of her purity as would induce me to forget every thing which is past, and urge me to snatch her again to my bosom, with all the passionate phrenzy of a desperate love—O! Melmoth, had you ever seen her—had you ever heard her talk—But I will drop the subject, I will speak of something else; and only observe that the greatest of all curses, is to doat upon the object of our utmost contempt; and to feel an invincible fondness in our hearts, for what our reason points out as an everlasting mark of detestation.

I have by this post wrote to my sister, and informed her of my intention to comply immediately with her wishes, and return home; Edwards has orders to prepare every thing for my departure, and in six weeks or a couple of months, I flatter myself with a hope of finding you in high spirits, and in good health. You, my dear Melmoth, and that exalted woman, lady Haversham, shall have the direction of my future life—You are people upon whose friendship I can safely rely, and notwithstanding all the parade which is made about a knowledge of the world, I am not satisfied but what the integrity of our friends is much more essential to our welfare, than their knowledge of mankind—But a truce with philosophical reflections.

What you tell me in relation to my sister's refusal of lord Winworth, does not at all surprize me—A woman of eight and twenty with a prodigious fortune, a fine person, and such a mind as lady Haversham's, cannot fail of having a number of admirers—But I am satisfied deserving as those admirers may be, she will never think of changing her situation—I know Theodosia possesses a delicacy of mind, perhaps, superior to all the rest of her sex; and am sensible, however, she may respect the matrimonial union, that she is no friend to second marriages—She has in confidence repeatedly told me, that a heart which is deserving of regard can admit but of one impression; and that she who can love a second time is utterly unworthy of being ever loved at all—Her notions to some may appear a little romantic, but I dare say, Charles, they will never lessen her in any body's estimation, whose esteem can be necessary to her peace, or advantageous to her character—This I am sure of at any rate, that they will excite your admiration as much as they have done that of

Your ever faithful ROBERT HAROLD.

LETTER XIX. Miss LOUISA MILDMAY to Miss HARRIOT BEAUCLERK.

Magdalen House, Goodman's Fields.

AND have I at last the unspeakable happiness of writing once more to my dear Harriot, does she still acknowledge me for her friend; or does she join in the general obloquy which the whole world must naturally throw upon a mysterious absence of above eleven months, at a time too that the most criminal levity of conduct had banished me from the protecting arms of parental affection, and cast me out in the full face of the whole universe, as a disgrace to my sex, and a scandal to my family. O! Harriot, it will be no more than what I expect if you should both despise and detest me—Yet when my story, my melancholy story comes to be related; when you find how basely, how cruelly I have been betrayed; I know your tender heart will bleed at what I have suffered, and I know also that the generosity of your disposition will be sensibly affected if during a period in which I have been most entitled to your pity, I have been materially lessened in your esteem. To begin then at once, know that the specious, the sanctified Mrs. Darnel, who had such obligations to our family, and in whose house I was to find so certain an asylum, is a fiend of darkness, an instrument of hell, a priestess of destruction.

For the first day or two of my residence at her house, after I was turned out from my father's, she seemed so heartily touched with my misfortune, and so immediately interested in my welfare, that abstracted from the closeness of our relation, she acquired a considerable share of my esteem, and I could not help considering her as a woman of unbounded good nature, who was kindly appointed by the pitying hand of Providence to mitigate the severity of my affliction—Actuated by this opinion, I made her acquainted with my whole heart, and determined as she had the character of being extremely sensible, and devout, to regulate my conduct entirely by her advice, till I should be happily blest with the forgiveness of my father.

I had not, however, been at her house above three days, when she began to alter her tone a little; instead of lamenting the unhappy step I had taken, as she did first, she spoke of it with more and more indifference; and at last pretty plainly insinuated, that I had erred rather against the severities of custom, than the laws of morality—that the very best women in the kingdom had not always been able to preserve themselves unsullied; and that it was even idle to distress myself so much on account of a slip, which she herself knew would not be in the least prejudicial to my fortune. I must confess I was so astonished to hear a woman, of whose delicacy in matters of reputation I entertained the highest opinion, so easily reconciled to an action I considered as criminal, as it was scandalous, and to be no less repugnant to the principles of virtue than the customs of society. I therefore continued silent some moments, hoping that I had misconceived her meaning, and expecting that she would explain herself more to my satisfaction: but here I was totally disappointed; for mistaking my silence as a mark of my approbation, she ventured to be still more explicit, and delivered herself to the following purpose, with an air half gay, half serious; yet carefully attending through the whole, to the various changes of my countenance.

‘Indeed, my dear Miss Mildmay, to be candid with you, I cannot imagine however widely I differ from the sentiments of the righteous over much; that the indulgence of the passions is any way repugnant to the laws of morality—I shall grant that the indulgence of them in a manner conformable to the practice of one's country is the most eligible mode; but where people are not married, human nature, as the poet says, will be human nature; and a casual lapse from the rigid rules of form must be sometimes expected. Come my dear,’ continued the unblushing creature, ‘taking hold of my hand, that Harold is a villain, but if you will be governed by me, your little affair with him shall by no means deprive you of a good husband. You recollect your old admirer Sir Harry Hastings, Sir Harry passionately loves you, and has followed you up to town, to make another tendre of a heart, which has long been devoted to your service; he is my intimate acquaintance, and has in fact requested my assistance, and if you have no objection shall drink tea with us this evening.’

You cannot imagine, my dear Harriot, what indignation I felt during the whole time of this delicate harangue; yet willing to discover her utmost designs, I endeavoured to bridle my impatience till she had finished it. When she concluded, I strove to assume as unembarrassed a tone of voice as I was able, and fixing my eyes with an unremitting attention upon her's, I think this was someting like my reply ‘—When I was free enough, madam, in obedience to the commands of a mother, to take up my residence at your house, I never expected to be insulted with a conversation of this nature; I did not scruple to acknowledge that I had been accidentally guilty, but at the same time I was in hopes Mrs. Darnel would good naturedly consider, that I was far from being habitually depraved—How therefore she can so widely mistake my character, or rather how she can act in a manner so unworthy of her own as to become a kind of advocate for dishonour, fills me with an equal degree of surprize and affliction.—When I came here, I expected a friend that would sympathize with my sorrows; not a flatterer that would study to lessen the blackness of my crime. Human nature as, you say, madam, may be human nature; but be assured, notwithstanding the error which I have so recently committed, I have no wishes to gratify by a new sacrifice either of my peace or my character; and that I shall never be so lost to sentiment or shame as to accept the hand of a worthless fellow who was formerly discarded on account of his own profligacy, and who is now mean enough to build his hopes of success upon an opinion of mine. Excuse me Mrs. Darnel—You have a right to receive what company you please in your own house; but consider that I am under no necessity of remaining here to be affronted by your visitors—I have other relations, madam, in town, who I doubt not will favour me with protection; and if you will only suffer some body to order a chair I shall ease you directly of all uneasiness on my account.’

Alarmed at a reply, which I dare say from my silence at first, she no way expected, Mrs. Darnel seemed greatly surprized that I should put so unaccountable a construction upon her words; if she seemed to speak slightly, she said, of a deviation from the spotless path's of innocence, it was on purpose to restore me to some degree of temper with myself; and if she had recommended Sir Harry Hastings to my consideration, it was entirely from a solicitude for my welfare, that deserved a very different return from such a severity of animadversion as I had been pleased to distinguish it with; Sir Harry was a man of good family and large fortune; unexceptionable in his person, and for aught she had ever heard to the contrary unexceptionable also in his manners. On these accounts she did not think him unworthy of my notice; however, since I was so averse to an interview with him, she would take care he should never visit at her house so long as I continued to honour her with my company; and that for the future I might be satisfied she would not drop a single syllable which was capable of giving me the least offence—Adding, that from the unremitting rectitude of her past life there could be no room to suppose she would now become an advocate for dishonour; or betray the cause of that virtue in the decline of her days, which in the giddiest part of her youth she had always regarded as the principal beauty of the female character.

We are all of us, my dear Harriot, ready enough to believe, what we wish may be true; and Mrs. Darnel defended herself with such an appearance of integrity that I was grieved for the tartness of my reply, and begged she would excuse it on account of the distraction with which my mind must at that time be naturally torn. I then let her into a few passages of Sir Harry's character, particularly his ruining the two Miss Nettervilles; his insolent attempt to run away with myself, for which you know my poor brother would have called him to a severe account had not Mr. Townshend put them both under an arrest; and mentioned some instances of his tyranny to inferiors, that had rendered him either contemptible or detested through all the country. Mrs. Darnel affected great surprize at these accounts, declaring she had never heard of any thing but his attempt to run away with me which could be mentioned to his prejudice—"Even of that," says she, ‘I heard but vaguely, I however set it down as a proof of that passion for you, which he still continues to express with the greatest vehemence, and which before I heard your sentiments, I did not know but the family might be induced to overlook.’

Matters continued entirely to my mind at Mrs. Darnel's, till lady Haversham took her leave of me, and went down on the scheme of reconciliation to the Hall. Mrs. Darnel then began to hint something of a concern for Sir Harry, and insinuated, though distantly, a fear, lest the amiable countess should prevail in her brother's favour; and lest after all I should be doomed to the arms of a man who was entitled to nothing but my eternal detestation—I again appeared extremly dissatisfied, she however, apologized, and we were again reconciled; but the night after, Harriot—the night after—Does not your heart ach with the strongest apprehensions for your poor Louisa?—I know it does—and I even anticipate at this passage the distress which I am sensible you must feel upon my account.

Next morning after breakfast Mrs. Darnel told me she was in a great dilemma with regard to an engagement, which she had annually at Sir William Nicholson's in the next street; ‘You must know my dear,’ says she, ‘Sir William and his lady always celebrate the anniversary of their marriage, and for twenty years I have never been absent on that occasion—Now I would not for the world leave you alone—and yet I don't know how to get excused if I stay away from Sir William's, this is the day, and there is to be a prodigious croud of company there in the evening.’ My dear Mrs. Darnel, returned I, you quite distress me with your civility—You must on no condition stay from your friends, for I shall be quite miserable if I think I interfere in the least with your engagements; I insist therefore absolutely on your going—and—"Well, well," interrupted she, ‘since you are so good I'll go,—but depend upon it I shall be at home by eleven in the evening.’ The stating of an hour for her return occasioned a fresh dispute; but at last she set out, ordering a chariot, which she had kindly set up on my account the day or two before, notwithstanding the slenderness of her fortune, to come at twelve.

As I was no way inclined to sleep I sat up in the back parlour, reading Clarissa Harlowe; and had just got into that passage where the vile Lovelace attempts the sanctity of her chamber at midnight, in the house of that detestable monster Sinclair. I don't know how it was, but I felt an instinctive kind of terror, when I came to this place—I could not go on with the story, and began to reflect, that, if any body was to break into our house I should be in a very dangerous situation—It was now almost one o'clock, and not a single soul at home besides myself, and the cook; my Sally, and Mrs. Darnel's women had received leave to be at a dance with some servants in the neighbourhood; and the men were attending the chariot at Sir William Nicholson's to bring home their mistress—The time; the place; a remote street, bordering on the fields of Marybone; and, above all, the subject which I had been just reading, served to fill me with the strongest apprehensions; and I was going more than once to call the cook to sit with me; but that I was fearful the poor woman might be in a doze, from excessive fatigue, as she was house-maid also, and therefore considered it cruel to disturb her—At last I heard somebody unlock the street door on the outside; and naturally supposing it to be my Sally, and Mrs. Darnel's woman, who had now returned from their evening's entertainment, I rang the bell; when who should enter the room, to my inexpressible astonishment, but the villain Hastings, wrapped up in a large surtout, and carrying a dark lanthorn in his hand, which gleamed an inconceivable horror round the whole apartment—I screamed out, you may naturally imagine, at the sight of so unexpected and suspicious a visitor; and called the cook as loud as I could to come up stairs instantly, at the same time ringing the bell with the greatest violence; but whether she was too fast a-sleep to hear me, or whether she was privy to the designs of her infamous mistress, I know not; this only I know, that she never once made her appearance, and that I was left entirely to the brutality of a wretch whom I knew to be equally destitute of shame and of humanity.

Finding myself thus barbarously betrayed, I assumed what spirits I could, and asked the midnight ruffian by what authority he had dared to break into my chamber at such an hour, in such a disguise; and threatened him with the utmost resentment, not only of the laws, but my family. He had now laid down his lanthorn, and unbuttoned his surtout; and was striving, by all the affectation of the deepest respect, to silence my exclamations; declaring that the happiness of his whole life depended upon me, and that nothing but the dictates of a desperate love could possibly urge him to break in thus violently on my repose— ‘Consider, ever beautiful Miss Mildmay,’ cried the monster on his knee, ‘consider how long and how passionately I have loved you—Recollect also, madam, that you are now thrown out by the inhumanity of a relentless father, and the perfidy of a profligate villain, upon an inhospitable world, which, so far from commiserating your situation, will even feast its malevolence with your distress—To guard you from the ruin which must inevitably burst upon your head in these melancholy circumstances, behold these faithful arms—My fortune and my soul are your's if you condescend to accept of them; and I shall think myself eternally obliged, if the solicitude which I manifest for your felicity may be able to influence the natural generosity of your temper to prevent the everlasting destruction of mine.’

As he pronounced this ridiculous speech with every seeming appearance of sincerity, I suppressed the indignation which I should have otherwise discovered at his presumption in joining my father's name to so opprobrious an epithet, in hopes that I should be able to turn his own arts upon him, and draw some advantages from all this affectation of generosity and affection—I therefore told him, that he had taken an odd way to testify his regard for me, by breaking thus at midnight into my apartment; and that the mysterious manner of his intrusion looked as if he came with some intentions which were totally different from the ends of this passionate protestation—On which account I begged he would immediately retire; and hinted, that, if he still continued his sentiments in my favour, he need not despair of being heard to his satisfaction in the morning.

"A thousand thanks, my angel" returned the wretch, kissing my hand with a wildness of vehemence ‘for this condescending goodness—Yet why, my adorable Miss Mildmay, if I am to receive any marks of your benignity in the morning, need you now scruple to bless me with some little, some distant token of your approbation?—Where a man doats to distraction, like me, an hour's delay is a whole eternity of torture—Shorten, therefore, the time, I beseech you, madam; and encrease the greatness of the obligation, by a generous alacrity in bestowing it.’

He was going on in this manner, my dear Harriot, and even proceeding to kiss my cheek, when, summoning all the fortitude of my soul, I seized him by the breast, and threw the wretch from me above half the length of the room— "Despicable villain," cried I at the same time, ‘unhand me; or, by the holy host of heaven, this moment is your last.’ I was really frantic, Harriot—I saw myself betrayed, and had seized a penknife that lay accidentally open on the reading table, absolutely determined to put my threats in execution if he presumed to affront me with another approach—Finding me so greatly enraged he seemed totally at a loss how to behave, and for some moments stood musing in a state of mingled surprize and irresolution.

Perceiving him thus embarrassed at my behaviour, I determined immediately to alarm the neighbourhood; and, with that view, snatched up one of the candles, thinking, before he recovered from his consternation, to reach the street-door; but the cautious villain was too well prepared; he had five other ruffians planted in the fore-parlour, who were to seize me in case I attempted any thing of this kind; and to carry me through a little garden at the back of the house, into a lane that led to the fields; there it seems a coach was in waiting to hurry me off; and the scheme was so settled, that two of these five should ride withinside the vehicle, to prevent my screaming; while the three others were to be posted armed without, for fear, after all their precautions, I might find some opportunity of calling for assistance, and excite the humanity of any accidental passengers to an attack.

You cannot conceive, my dear Harriot, when I quitted the room, and found Sir Harry no way inclined to follow me; how my heart throbbed with the expectation of counteracting all Mrs. Darnel's barbarous machinations; and the hope of being able to engage the compassion of some charitable neighbour for my protection till day-light; but when the other wretches rushed out of the street-parlour, and barred my passage to the door, I was next to absolutely distracted—I screamed with a violence that almost tore my head to pieces; and, losing all my resolution at once, I fell upon my knees, crying out, ‘Spare me, dear gentlemen, spare me—I am a poor unfortunate creature, cast out from my family and friends—and I conjure you, by the tender mercies of the living God, not to assist the infamous purposes of that monster Sir Harry Hastings.’

"Madam," replied one of the fellows, whose appearance was superior to the rest, ‘Sir Harry is a fine gentleman, has long loved you—and means you nothing but what is strictly honourable; remove your apprehensions therefore.’ —

"O! Sir," interrupted I, ‘whence this violence, if he means nothing but what is honourable? Why am I, at such an hour as this, beset in my own lodgings, and treated with all the illiberal freedoms of a brothel-like audacity? If you are gentlemen, you will surely snatch a poor unhappy young creature from destruction, who has never done any human being the least injury: or, if you are men whose necessities have obliged you to undertake an office repugnant to the natural goodness of your hearts, you must surely perform a virtuous action for reward with as much readiness as you can consent to the perpetration of a monstrous crime. —Hear me then, dear gentlemen, I beseech you; conduct me but to lady Haversham's, in Grosvenor Square—Lodge me but safely in the next house; and I solemnly protest, before God, that, let the wretch who has employed you for this barbarous purpose promise what he will, you shall receive double that sum, and a thousand thanks into the bargain, for consulting your own safety, and disappointing his infamous designs.’

I would have expostulated farther with the savages, my dear Harriot, but the vile Sir Harry now made his appearance; and asked on what account they delayed the execution of their plan; endeavouring to raise me from the ground at the same time, and ordering the rest to assist in carrying me to the coach—It was in vain I struggled—in vain I shrieked for help—the monsters obeyed his commands with the most implicit readiness; and my spirits were at last so exhausted by the sharpness of my terror, and the fatigue of my resistance, that I sunk lifeless on the floor.—In this state they easily carried me to the coach; and it was ten o'clock next, or, more properly speaking, that morning, before I recovered my senses sufficiently to recollect any one circumstance of the whole transaction.

About ten o'clock, however, I came a little to myself, and found that I was in a very handsome bed, that the room was extremely well furnished, and that there were two female attendants with hartshorn, and a number of other restoratives, ready to administer every assistance which might be necessary for my recovery. From these women, who were Sir Harry's house-keeper and her daughter, I learned that I was brought to this house about four o'clock in the morning; that several times on the road Sir Harry and his companions were in violent apprehensions for my life; that the moment they arrived I was consigned over to the care of the women; and that, till within the last two hours, I had been in the strongest hysterics imaginable. The housekeeper added, that she was sure her master must love me with the sincerest affection, for he had been like a distracted man on my account; and had repeatedly sworn to lay violent hands on himself, if my indisposition should be productive of any fatal consequences. As the women seemed to be not only communicative but good-natured, weak as I was, I made them acquainted with their master's conduct, told them my name and family, and offered to reward them above their utmost expectations if they could, by any fortunate contrivance, facilitate my escape.—To this they replied, that they should be very willing to oblige me; but that their lives would not be safe if they acted in the least contrary to the will of their master—The youngest, particularly, thought it surprizing that I should wish to quit so fine a gentleman as Sir Harry, who had so great an estate, and who was ready, she was sure, to marry me the moment I thought proper to give my consent. From this, and some other expressions which dropped from the daughter, I found that she herself was in love with the wretch; and consequently thought it wonderful how any body else could mention him with the smallest indication either of aversion or contempt.

Disappointed in my hopes of escaping by means of the women, and finding them entirely at the devotion of their profligate master, I desired they would help me up, not knowing how soon they might leave me to the monster's brutality. They complied, but reluctantly; observing, that, after what I had undergone, rest was absolutely necessary for me; and declaring that they were certain I must be greatly indisposed. Indeed, Harriot, they said true; I was extremely ill; and, could I have removed my apprehensions of Sir Harry, I should have followed their advice with the utmost satisfaction. When they had dressed me, or, more properly speaking, when they restored my dress to a little order, they led me into the dining-room, and prevailed upon me to swallow two dishes of tea, and a dish of chocolate: after this they withdrew; but the daughter returned in a few minutes after, to tell me that Sir Harry was coming to attend me; and the message was scarcely delivered before the horrid fellow actually entered with an air of forced complaisance, very visibly mixed with some degree of confusion, and a great deal of malignity.

I was sitting in a great chair when he entered; and, thinking it best to betray as little fear as possible, I fixed my eyes upon him with an intenseness of determined indignation; and asked him how long I was to remain a prisoner in his house? To which he replied, till I wanted an inclination to quit it.— ‘But, madam,’ says he, seating himself on the opposite side of the fire-place, ‘I am now come to have a little serious conversation with you; and, as the nature of this conversation will be of the last importance to your own happiness, I hope, upon that account, you will favour me with your attention.—From the closeness of our neighbourhood in the country, my dear Miss Mildmay, it is impossible but what some particulars of my conduct must have reached your family that were no way advantageous to my character—Yet from the same closeness of neighbourhood, you yourself must have heard that I declined all alliance with many young ladies of distinction, merely on account of my attachment for you; declaring that so long as you continued single, I never should think of any other woman—You also know, madam, that when you thought proper to reject my addresses, your whole house allowed my proposal to be extremely disinterested; and acknowledged that I did not want for love, however I might be deficient in desert. That love, madam, instead of being extinguished by repulse, has, on the contrary, acquired additional force from opposition; and has driven me upon expedients in which I have acquired nothing but disgrace—It has forced me to the meanness of keeping spies continually about your person; and your very woman, Sally, in whom you so confidently trusted—nay, madam, don't start—is nothing better than one of my instruments.’

‘As long however as you remained absolutely disengaged, I bore my own rejection, and even the shame which resulted from my unsuccessful attempt to carry you off before, with some tollerable share of temper; but the moment that cursed Harold was declared the happy man, I determined, let the consequence be what it would, to prevent the celebration of your union; and had not a rupture happened otherwise between you, I was resolved you never should be his, tho' I even got him pistoll'd on his way to the church—When you were sent up to town I followed you instantly; and established my interest so effectually with Mrs. Darnel, that she consented to my carrying you off from her house if there was no likelihood of my succeeding by any other means—There was no likelihood; on the contrary, lady Haversham set off to bring about a reconciliation between her family and your's; and the thing may be concluded done, for every body knows that woman is irresistable.’

‘Such, madam, is the history of your present captivity—Now to what must follow—After having gone these lengths to get you into my possession, it cannot be supposed that the power of man will ever prevail upon me to give you up—Nor, indeed, is it likely that any body will be able to discover you, since Mrs. Darnel's own interest, as well as her reputation, must oblige her to account for your absence in a manner widely different from the truth—For these reasons, therefore, madam, I leave it to the determination of your own good sense, whether it will not be much better for you to think of uniting chearfully with me; than urge me to the disagreeable necessity of exerting a power, which, however unjustly it may be obtained, nevertheless places your destiny entirely in my hands—Believe me, Miss Mildmay, I love you with the most passionate extravagance, yet with the nicest sentiment of honour—If I did not intend honourably, what could prevent me, in a house where my will is as absolute as fate, from gratifying my inclination in any manner I might wish?—But, I don't know how it is—culpable as I may have been with regard to others, there is something about you which always excited my deepest veneration; and awes me at this instant, when I am in possession of your person, from entertaining any intention injurious to your character—I have talked a great deal, and shall now acquaint you with my final determination in a few words. From the purity of my views, madam, and the impossibility of your ever escaping from this house, I am in hopes that your generosity and your goodness will induce you to accept of the offer which I again repeat of my hand and fortune. Make a merit, therefore, madam, of necessity; and consent to my propositions with a good grace—for be assured your refusal shall excuse you nothing, as I have a clergyman already in the house, who is not to be terrified from his duty by screams, and will perform the necessary ceremony were you even struggling in the pangs of death, and he himself to be destined the next moment to inevitable destruction.’

Inhuman, barbarous, remorseless villain!—O! Harriot, don't you wonder at my patience in listening so tamely to so long and so audacious an address? But, indeed, my dear, the odious man terrified me to the last degree by the excess of his confidence; and, in proportion as it was proper for me to interrupt him, I found myself less and less able to break in upon his horrid harangue—But a motion which he made to seize my hand roused me instantly to an exertion of my spirits; and, spurning him from me with all the disdain I could possibly assume, yet still possessing my recollection, I spoke to him in the following manner: ‘—Hear me, Hastings—Execrable monster hear me—Nor imagine, because I have been infamously betrayed into your power, that any thing can fright away my reluctance to your person, or my hatred of your heart—Know then, that, should instant death be the consequence of my refusal, no force on earth shall ever make me yours—I always despised, I always detested you—and this last outrage or which you have been guilty, gives such an everlasting edge to my aversion, that, I if retain in the next world any sense of what has passed in this, I shall still consider you through all eternity with the same unremitting contempt, and the same unremitting detestation—What, Sir, do you suppose that the more reason I have for my abhorrence, the more I should relax in my resentments; or think that, if your addresses were repulsed when I thought you infinitely less atrocious, there is a possibility of succeeding now, when you are covered with aggravated crimes? No, Hastings, no—The very supposition of such a circumstance is a fresh argument of your unworthiness, and only serves to render you additionally odious to my imagination—Free me, therefore, from this infamous house, I desire you—Free me instantly from this house—for, by the mighty God of heaven, the hour that makes me your's puts an end to my life, and may possibly endanger the safety of your own.’

"Upon my word, madam," replied the insulting wretch— ‘this tone of voice is perfectly tragical; you really talk this admirably—and, if your favourite Harold was not to the full as great a profligate as myself, I should think it impossible for you to overlook the smallest deviation from the paths of virtue—But I appeal to the rectitude of your judgment against the preposession of your heart—and, since you force me to put the question, let me ask you, which is most entitled to your regard, the man who has not only ruined, but forsaken you; or the man, who, with all the obloquy of that ruin upon your head, is willing to take you to his arms, and is ready even to think himself happy in a participation with your disgrace?’

O! Harriot, don't you pity me, don't you bleed for me here?—Stained and polluted as I was, how could I reply to the equity of this reproach?—I felt it, as Hamlet says, in my heart's core—in my heart of heart's—and the propriety of it struck me instantly dumb—O! how mean, how despicable is guilt, when it is even incapable to retort an insult from the unworthy, and shrinks before the judgement seat of vice with as great a degree of timidity as if it was immediately arraigned before the awful tribunal of virtue!—That Harold too—but save me, Harriot—I must not suffer myself to think—of that—I cannot find an epithet to distinguish him by—my reason is impatient to brand him with the most detestable—but this infatuated bosom eternally beats in his behalf, and, though I strive to despise and abhor him, yet I feel I passionately love.

As I continued in a state of silent confusion at this unanswerable retort of Sir Harry's, the wretch rang the bell with a determined air, and, the housekeeper entering to know his commands—"Mrs. Lawson," says he, ‘desire the gentlemen in the parlour to walk up.’ The woman withdrew, and, before I could recollect myself sufficiently to ask him for what purpose they were to walk up, three of the fellows who had been concerned in carrying me off the night before, attended by a most bold looking man, in a clergyman's habit, were in the room. This was a sight which I was utterly unable to withstand; my brain was instantly on fire; I screamed with a wildness of distraction; and, just as the clergyman was coming up to me, I sunk down lifeless on the floor. What became of me for six whole weeks I know not—Mrs. Lawson tells me, that I was in such strong hysterics, after the presence of the men had terrified me into a swoon, that they were under a necessity of giving over their purpose for that time; and that it was with the greatest difficulty she, her daughter, and two of the housemaids, could remove me to my room. Here it seems the violent agitation of mind, and the excessive fatigue which I had undergone, threw me into a fortunate fever, which deprived me of my senses; and, though the monster Hastings omitted nothing which could possibly tend to my recovery, yet it was full six weeks before I was brought to my recollection. About this time, the natural goodness of my constitution triumphing over the fury of my disorder, I became somewhat sensible, and was called back to the pungent reflections of a sensibility, which made me look with an inconceivable envy upon madness.

During the dangerous part of my illness, Mrs. Lawson informed me, that her wretch of a master was absolutely frantic; that he frequently tore his hair, and stamped upon the ground with all the agitation of a bedlamite, swearing he would not survive me if I happened to die; and raving that the grave should at least unite him to me, should there be no possibility of a union with me by any other means. Though nothing was ever more odious to me than the thoughts of this fellow's passion, yet it was very fortunate that he loved me to so preposterous an excess—for his brutal companions, before I fell dangerous ill, being no strangers to the crime of your unhappy friend, were continually ridiculing his intention of marrying a creature who had already parted with her honour; and were as often advising him to profit by the opportunity which Mrs. Darnel had put so luckily in his hands—They assured him, that a woman who had been familiar with one man, would make no mighty scruple to be familiar with a second—they mentioned my hatred of him as the greatest of all affectations; and insisted that nothing could be so contemptible as his stooping to accept of a woman for his wife whom another had already possessed as his mistress. These arguments Mrs. Lawson hinted would wind him up sometimes to a downright determination of proceeding to the most absolute violations—he seemed fearful of being despised by his friends—and frequently talked of pursuing their advice—but, in the midst of all his resolutions, the desire which he had to make me his irrevocably, and the dread he was under lest I should commit some instant act of desperation on myself if he went to such shocking extremities, prevented him from executing his horrid design; so that when he found I was really in danger, every thought of an illicit nature was immediately sacrificed to his concern for my recovery—By this means, my dear Harriot, I very happily escaped every actual dishonour; and, tho' his detestable passion was the source of such exquisite distress, still it was that very passion which was the ultimate cause of my preservation.

I will not, my dear Harriot, trespass on your patience by a minute detail of all I suffered in this odious house during a period of seven months—Suffice it, that I was scarcely recovered from my first fit of illness, but a fresh attempt to force me into a marriage brought on a relapse, which saved me from a world of the most insupportable persecution, and changed the detestable importunities of Hastings into a fresh concern for my life—This second interposition of Providence, for I consider it as such in my favour, lasted three months—and the wretch was so miserable at that time on my account, that he expressed a resolution of using no means but humility and confinement to work upon my temper for the future—In about three months time I was again tollerably recovered, and beginning again to dread some lawless attempt from Sir Harry, when one of these common, yet unexpected accidents, which are sometimes productive of events which cannot be brought about by the utmost exertion of human wisdom, set me free from captivity, and opened a new scene in my history, perhaps not less extraordinary than any of the former passages.

Sir Harry, and some of his fellow-libertines, had been making merry below stairs one day, (for I should have told you, that, during the whole time of my imprisonment, I never once eat a morsel out of those rooms which were particularly set apart for my use) and sat up, according to custom, so extremely late, that none of them retired sober to their rooms.—I myself heard some of them very noisy on the stairs when they broke up, and therefore could give a probable guess at their situations.—I don't know what was the matter with me, but that night I would not pull off my cloaths, and only threw myself across the bed, to indulge myself in one of those melancholly reveries which are generally pleasing to the unfortunate:—between three and four, however, I grew a little heavy, and had just began to doze, when Mrs. Lawson and her daughter, who always lay in an adjoining bed in the same room, as well to prevent me from any possibility of escaping, as to take care that my apartments were not approached by any of her master's friends, gave a violent shriek, and, jumping out of bed with the utmost precipitation, exclaimed, that the house was in flames. It was now about the beginning of October, and wanted a considerable while to day. I started up, and found the matter just as they represented it, the fire blazing fiercely through the windows; and the servants, who were by this time alarmed, were some of them unlocking the street door, and unbolting the parlour windows, while others were busied in assisting their intoxicated masters out of bed.—This was an opportunity, my dear Harriot, not to be neglected: already dressed, I took advantage of the general confusion, and, slipping out in nothing but a black silk night-gown, while every body's attention was employed on something else, I gained the road, dark as it was, and trudged on without knowing, or indeed caring, which way I went, so I could but get far enough from that detested Hastings.—The only apprehension I laboured under, was that of being pursued and overtaken by some of the wretch's emissaries, the moment he became acquainted with my flight. But, as if Providence was particularly determined to rescue me from his hands, I was overtaken by a ministring angel, in the humble shape of a gardener's wife, who was singing with all the chearfulness of a benevolent mind, and going with a cartload of vegetables to one of the London markets.—I addressed myself to her at once, told her that I was an unfortunate young woman, who had been carried off from my friends by force about seven months before; and that the villain's house, who had taken me away, being that moment on fire, I had seized the opportunity, and made my escape; I therefore begged her protection, and assured her I would make it worth her while, if she would be kind enough to take me along with her, as I was fearful of being pursued, and carried back. The good woman, who had ordered a boy that drove the horses to stop the moment I spoke to her, replied, that whoever I was, I appeared to be in distress, and that, she said, was a sufficient claim to her assistance at any time. So saying, she let down a little ladder from the cart, and desiring the boy to help me up, I was seated by herself in an instant. As she had a lanthorn by her in the vehicle, she could now have a tolerable idea of my person; and, after looking at me for a minute or so, in the least offensive manner she could assume, she stood up, and taking off a warm joseph, in which she was buttoned up herself, "Come, madam," said she, ‘this is a cold morning; you don't seem much acquainted with this way of travelling; therefore let me help you on with this coat. Indeed you must have it,’ (perceiving I made a motion to decline being obliged at her expence) ‘and you must let me tie this handkerchief about your head too.—Poor soul! how you tremble—but have a stout heart—I'll be sworn, from your looks, that you are a good creature; and, depend upon it, you shan't want for a friend, while my name is Deborah Dobson.’

O Harriot, how was I charm'd with the uncultivated benignity of this worthy rustic!—a tear of gratitude rose instantly into my eye; and all I could say was, "Good Mrs. Dobson, I thank you." We had not rode above a mile from Hampstead, for there, my dear, it was that Hastings had his house, when the honest, obliging creature's joseph and handkerchief preserved me almost miraculously; for Sir Harry having missed me in a very little time, had dispatched servants every way, I suppose, in search of me, not at all attending to the safety of his house; and two of them now came up to the cart, and enquired of Mrs. Dobson, if she had met any young woman on the road; Mrs. Dobson replied, she had not; and the fellows pursued their course furiously on towards town, saying, that probably somebody on horseback, or in a post-chaise, had taken her up, since it was impossible for her to walk so far in the time.

You can't think how my heart flutter'd, my dear Harriot, at this rencounter, nor imagine what a degree of satisfaction the worthy woman expressed at my fortunate escape. "You see, Madam," says she, ‘how lucky it was that you consented to be wrapped up;—that joseph is an old companion of mine; and I shall love it as long as I live, for being the means of your deliverance.’ In this manner we reached Whitechapel, I think she called it, where there is a market kept; and where she had a sister, she told me, a widow woman, who kept a snug little house, and would afford me all the accommodation in her power.—Accordingly she led me directly to her sister's, who, it seems, was a considerable dealer in butter and eggs, and was now preparing to set out upon the business of the day, a most comfortable breakfast of coffee being already on the table, in a neat stone kitchen, amply furnished with pewter and brass, of so shining a complexion, as bore the strongest testimony imaginable to the cleanliness of the owner.

"Molly," says Mrs. Dobson to her sister upon entering, ‘I have brought a stranger with me to town this morning: here is a young lady who was carried off from her friends by some scoundrel about seven months ago, and kept all that time at the villain's house at Hampstead. The house, thank God, was a-fire as we passed by; and the young lady, while all the family was busy about other affairs, slipped out, overtook my cart, and here I have brought her to be taken care of, 'till she can send to her relations.’

"God bless her dear soul," returned the other, ‘I shall take as much care of her, as if she was my own child.—I warrant her poor father and mother have felt many an aching heart upon her account —but come, Madam, sit down; let us have a dish of coffee, and then we'll shew you to a bed, where you may rest a little, after the fatigue of your journey.’ So saying, she helped me off with my joseph and handkerchief; while a pretty, modest-looking young woman, about eighteen, who appeared to be her daughter, kindly reached me a chair, and seemed studious for opportunities to oblige me.

After breakfast the two sisters, preparing to go away, recommended me to the care of Sally, the young woman of whom I have been just speaking, and wished me, in a very affectionate manner, a good morning. Before they withdrew, however, I begged to speak to my worthy friend, Mrs. Dobson, in a private room: the good woman readily indulged my request; and, if I might judge by the benignity which enlightened her honest countenance, she came with the more readiness, from a supposition that I stood in farther need of her services. When we were alone, ‘My dear Mrs. Dobson,’ says I, ‘you have eternally obliged me; you have been my preserver—my guardian angel—but I shall be the most miserable creature in the world, unless you kindly accept this trifle (endeavouring to squeeze five guineas into her hand) for a pair of gloves.’ "Madam," replied the generous Mrs. Dobson, in a stile much above her condition) ‘I am no way sorry that you make me this offer, because it confirms my good opinion of you—but I should think very meanly of myself, if I was capable of taking a reward for performing a common act of humanity.—God bless you, my sweet young lady,’ continued she, kissing my cheek, ‘and send you a happy meeting with your friends.—While you stay here, every thing will be at your service, I dare say; and, humble as we are in the world, be assured you have fallen among people, who would rather confer obligations, than receive them.’ Oh, Harriot, these are the persons whom your great ones look upon with contempt—these are the persons whom the insolence of the opulence or pomp so frequently considers as little superior to the merely animal creation: yet see by what souls they are informed!—The mind of this woman, my dear, would have done honour to a coronet; yet how many women are there with coronets, who would shed the smallest degree of credit upon her cart?

After the departure of the two industrious sisters, Sally, to whose care I was consigned, advised me, in a very pretty manner, to lie down, insisting upon helping me to undress, and begging I would consider myself at home in their family. I complied with Sally's obliging intreaties, and accordingly went to bed; but, alas! my dear, I awoke in a high fever; and was actually delirious before the good young woman's mother returned from market. By the excess of the worthy people's tenderness, and care of an excellent apothecary, who, it seems, attended that admirable institution called the Magdalen, about which you and I have so frequently talked in the country, I was, in as short a time as possible, recovered from my illness;—but, though my health was re-established, my mind was totally unhinged.—The numberless distresses which I had of late sustained, joined to the consciousness of having been the original author of every misfortune myself, was too much for me. Ignorant whether my brother was living or dead—satisfied that my poor father and mother must be torn by the sharpest of all anxieties—and convinced that my Harriot herself must have given me up as a lost abandoned creature, I was continually raving about my fall, and wishing for some asylum, where I might waste out the remainder of my days in penitence for my sin. Instead, therefore, of desiring¦ing to write to those who would interest themselves in my behalf, I looked upon the whole world as my irreconcileable enemy; yet, though I incessantly raved, I was, nevertheless, apparently calm, and perfectly consistent. It was in vain that poor Mrs. Dobson, the honest woman, her sister, and the whole family, opposed my resolution of entering the Magdalen; it was in vain that they assured me of a perpetual asylum with them—I continued inflexible; and what was the absolute result of my delirium, they, who could naturally judge by nothing but appearances, set down as the consequence of premeditated determination; so that at last they consented, and I was received, though with some essential deviations, from the customary mode of accepting Penitents, the good apothecary managing matters with as much delicacy as could be wished. I have since, however, learned, that, had any of Hastings's people remained about Hampstead, to satisfy Mrs. Dobson's enquiries; or could she have prevailed on me to give any account of myself after my illness, I never should have entered this place. But Sir Harry's house, it seems, being entirely burnt down, the whole family was removed, before her enquiries began; and I was so strenuously bent upon my scheme, that I evaded an answer to her questions to myself, with a degree of cunning almost wonderful in my circumstances.

I have now, my dear Harriot, been in this house above three months, and find that my little understanding is as well established as my health.—I have, therefore, employed myself for some time in drawing up the foregoing account for your information, and submit it entirely to your own discretion, either to conceal it, or to lay it before my relations. My friend, Mrs. Dobson, and her sister, with their good-natured niece and daughter, visit me at every convenient opportunity; and I have now made the worthy people acquainted with the history of my misfortunes, though I have not yet informed them either of my betrayer's name, or the name of my own family; and, what is still more, I have perswaded Sally's mother to accept of fifty guineas, which I had in my purse, for all her trouble and expence; and Mrs. Dobson has promised to wear a ring for my sake, but not 'till she sees me out of this house.—Somehow, worthy as these people are, they look upon public penance as disreputable—perhaps, according to the modes of this country, it may be so; but what, in fact, is custom, where conscience is solely to determine upon virtues and upon crimes?—It is true, if my imagination had not been disturbed, I had never dreamt of entering into a place, particularly dedicated to the public penitence of prostitution:—Yet, alas, Harriot, how am I better than the unhappy poor creatures, whom the pinching hand of necessity, or the poignant stings of remorse, have brought to the same salutary, yet humiliating habitation?—Have I not violated the sacred laws of virtue?—Have I not blasted my reputation?—Have I not torn a father's heart with unutterable anguish?—Have I not steeped the pillow of an excellent mother in despair?—And may not the generous youth, my brother, be long since murdered on my account?—O save me, Harriot, from that dreadful supposition—Snatch me, if possible, from my fears upon this occasion—or my portion must be distraction without end.—Gracious God! what a wretch do I appear, on the smallest recollection!—And shall such a creature as I, imagine she is any ways lessened, by mingling with those who, like herself, have sacrificed the dignity of their sex, and the honour of their families?—No, Harriot, this is the properest habitation for me now—Here meditation, as the poet says, may find room even to madness—And here the streaming eye of a heart-directed contrition, may possibly wash away the stains of guilt, and induce the awful Father of Mercies to overlook my crimes.—But my poor parents—my noble-minded brother—O Harriot, if I yet retain any share in your remembrance, write to me instantly—I shall not close my eyes, till the return of the post.—A letter directed to Mrs. Carter's, my kind hostess, in Whitechapel, for Charlotte Windham, (the name which I assumed in the unsettled state of my mind, to prevent my family from receiving any farther disgrace) will be immediately forwarded to the lost unhappy wretch, who possessed the first place in your friendship, when she was

LOUISA MILDMAY.

LETTER XX. Sir ROBERT HAROLD, to CHARLES MELMOTH, Esq.

Calais, December 16.

OH Melmoth, my Louisa is innocent—her account is authenticated by the strongest of all testimonies—the acknowledgment of Hastings himself; and the villain has, by this time, probably, attoned with his life for all the tortures of her bosom, and all the agonies of mine.—I have just reached this place; and have sat down, while a little vessel is getting ready to sail with me for Dover, to send you a cursory account of particulars, lest any accident should prevent me from being with you in London as early as the post.

I had just received lady Haversham's copy of Louisa's affecting history, which you sent me with your last, when, all life and spirits, I dressed for the opera, and happened to be introduced into a box, where an English gentleman was sitting alone, with whom I fell into so familiar a conversation, that I accepted a proposal which he made, of eating a bit of supper at a tavern, after the performance; and this the more readily, as his appearance bore an indication of fashion, and as, in the course of our chat, he mentioned his being intimate with two or three gentlemen of my acquaintance.

When the opera was over, we retired to one of the best houses in the neighbourhood of the theatre; where, after drinking two or three glasses of Burgundy, he mentioned that his name was Sir Harry Hastings, and that he had a seat in the county of Oxford.—I need not tell you, that this information set me instantly on fire. I was just going to break out, and to demand satisfaction for his outrages to Louisa, when, recollecting it would be best to hear his own account of matters—for fear, after all, that Miss Mildmay might draw up a story to answer her own purposes, and trespass a little upon veracity, to extenuate the infamy of her flight. With this view, I asked Sir Harry, if he was acquainted with the Mildmays, as I knew something of a gentleman, who had paid his addresses to a young lady of that family.— ‘Acquainted with them!’ replied Sir Harry; ‘yes, I am perfectly acquainted with them; and it is, in a great measure, on account of that very young lady, that I have quitted England.—You must know, Sir,’ continued the communicative baronet, ‘that I am a near neighbour of the Mildmays, and have, for above four years, entertained a passion of the most extravagant nature for their daughter—but somehow, though my fortune was as good as any other admirer's, and my proposals much more advantageous, still some freedoms which I had taken with the women, created unsurmountable objections to my character, and my addresses were rejected with a degree of disrespect that gave me no little mortification. Stung with resentment at the cavalier manner in which I was treated, and burning also to obtain Miss Mildmay, I made a fruitless attempt to carry her off.—In some time after the failure of this design, one Sir Robert Harold, (possibly the gentleman you mean, sir,) commenced an acquaintance at Bath with Miss Mildmay, and worked himself so successfully into her affections, that a day was set apart for the celebration of their nuptials, though this happy lover was, to the full, as great a profligate as myself. The family, however, paid dear for the preference which they gave this gentleman, for, before the wedding day, Sir Robert found means to gain the last favour from Miss Mildmay; and a quarrel happening between them immediately after, the intended bridegroom fairly took his leave, and left the disdainful Louisa to feel, in turn, every sting of disappointment, and every pungency of disgrace.’

‘Miss Mildmay on this was instantly sent to town, to the house of a relation, one Mrs. Darnel; and, as I had my spies continually at work, I found out at once the place of her destination, and followed her instantly, being still so ridiculously besotted, that her affair with Harold no way lessened either the excess of my love, or the extravagance of my veneration. In fact, what would have damped the ardour of any other man's passion, only served to increase the fervour of mine; so that, instead of thinking to possess her on the same terms with that lucky dog Harold, I was uncommonly desirous of making her mine for ever. I wanted to be sure of her; and, notwithstanding I had a thousand times ridiculed other fellows, for scandalously stooping to patch up a cracked reputation, still I went on, as if her character had been unblemished; and felt infinitely more uneasiness on account of her prepossession for the destroyer of her honour, than for her actual deviation from the sentiments of virtue.—But I beg your pardon,’ cried Hastings, interrupting himself; ‘I am trespassing on your leisure, by a dull repetition of an affair, which cannot possibly afford you the smallest entertainment. People are apt to teize others with those circumstances which affect their own peace; and I never hear Miss Mildmay's name mentioned, but what I am for entering into an account of my passion for her, and a narrative of my various disappointments.’

"O, Sir," replied I, ‘you cannot oblige me more, than by indulging yourself on the subject. I am extremely entertained by relations of this nature; and, if there is no particular secret,’ —"Secret! Sir," returned my brother baronet— ‘O there is no secret—I dare say, by this time, every thing is public enough in England; and therefore I can have no objection to gratify your curiosity, since such a gratification is the highest pleasure I can do myself. You must know, Sir, that Miss Mildmay had scarcely arrived at her cousin Darnel's, when the prevailing rethoric of one thousand guineas, and a five hundred pound annuity for life, prevailed upon the worthy relation to deliver her into my hands. The price, extravagant as it was, I did not matter sixpence; but it seems the unconscionable Jezabel was to receive something very handsome from Harold's sister, lady Haversham, for contriving a method of removing those inconveniencies to which the beautiful delinquent might be exposed, during her absence from her family; such as want of equipage, and other essential articles.—These, lady Haversham, as Harold's sister, could not be seen immediately to furnish, as Miss Mildmay's delicacy would be alarmed; and as Mrs. Darnel's circumstances were narrow, she was to receive a secret sufficiency for the purpose, and to be properly considered for her politeness into the bargain. This was the reason why she insisted upon the exorbitant terms I have mentioned.—But enough of terms—let it satisfy, therefore, that she contrived a feasible excuse to leave Louisa alone one evening—that the servants were all sent out of the way, and that, with the assistance of four or five friends, who were provided in case of accidents, I carried her off to a house which I had at Hampstead, and kept her there for full seven months.’

Now, Melmoth, see my astonishing command of temper—"Seven months!" interrupted I, so calmly— ‘Well, and surely in that time you had opportunities enough of carrying your point, either by marriage, or a more expeditious method—you understand me’ —"No, by all that's good," replied he, ‘strange as it may appear—I was totally disappointed of success.—She was in a violent fever the principal part of the time; and, in the intervals of her recovery, nothing could either perswade or terrify her into an acceptance of me.—The few friends who were in the secret, advised me to proceed by other means, and laughed incessantly on account of my romantic purity of affection, as they termed it, for a cast mistress.—Their ridicule too was the more severe, because I had been myself one of the very wildest in the whole knot; and had taken such liberties at various times with the sex, as rendered my present behaviour to the last degree extraordinary.—There is nothing which we can stand so little as the shaft of ridicule.—I was a thousand times determined to prosecute their advice—and frequently blushed in secret at the littleness of my conduct, in thinking of Miss Mildmay for a wife—Yet my unaccountable love got the better of my shame, and I was terrified from attempting any actual violation, because I knew the greatness of her spirit; and was apprehensive, that, in such a case, she might lay a desperate hand upon her person.—She had repeatedly threatened as much, and, I am positive, would have been as good as her word.’

"It is wonderful," interrupted I, ‘that some of your friends did not speak of her being with you—that none of your servants, as you were so near a neighbour of the Mildmays, did not, at some time, write to their friends in the country about the young lady—or, that the physicians’ —

‘O, the easiest things in the world to manage,’ cried Sir Harry— ‘I had secrets of my friends, as a security for the preservation of mine—my servants were all true to the back bone, and had been tried a thousand times—and as for the physicians—an additional fee made them as silent as the grave at any time.’ —

"Well," interrogated I, ‘and was it possible that she could escape at last out of your hands, without rewarding you for all the trouble which you were at upon her account?’

"It was possible," replied Sir Harry, ‘because she did—and I will tell you by what unfortunate accident.—A parcel of us had been making merry one evening below stairs, and we were all pretty well in for it, before we thought of going to bed—For my part, though I had drank very near four bottles, I had no inclination to undress—I therefore took up a volume of Tristram Shandy, which lay by the bed-side, and continued so long at this, that nature was at last wearied out, and I sunk insensibly into so found a sleep, that it was with much difficulty they could wake me, when the house was in flames—for the bed-curtains, by some means, reaching my candle, the whole furniture was instantly in a blaze; and the fire, I suppose, spread through the other apartments with the greatest rapidity:—in the confusion occasioned by this unlucky circumstance, Miss Mildmay contrived to make her escape; and though, the moment her flight was discovered, I posted messengers through all the different roads, and even continued an indefatigable search after her for above two months, I never could gain any satisfactory account.—Tired out at length with a search which was productive of nothing but disappointment and mortification, I gave her over, and quitted England, in hopes that distance and time would mitigate the distresses of my mind, if it could not even restore my tranquillity.—So much, Sir, for Miss Mildmay—and now I have been so communicative, I hope you will not think me impertinent, if I ask your name, and beg to know which part of England is favoured with your residence.’

"That," returned I, ‘you shall soon know—My name is Harold.—I have an estate in Somersetshire—but my principal residence, when I am in England, is in Grosvenor-Square.’ —

Have you ever, my dear Charles, particularly remarked Garrick, in the second act, I think it is, of Lear, where Goneril has struck off one half of his followers, and the poor old king tells his melancholly tale to Regan, from whom he expects to meet the most dutiful returns of filial gratitude and affection—Have you, I say, remarked the intense, the inexpressible astonishment of the venerable monarch, when, instead of receiving the least consolation from the only child of which he now reckons himself possessed, the unnatural harpy aggravates the indignity he has suffered, and desires him even to dismiss one half of those knights, which have yet been spared him by her infamous sister?—If you recollect the face of our modern Roscius in that celebrated scene, you will have some tolerable idea of the amazement which this reply instantly spread over the whole countenance of Hastings—"Harold!"—exclaimed he—"Harold!" drawing his chair insensibly from the table, and fixing his eyes on me, with an absolute wildness of surprize— ‘Pray, Sir, are you the Sir Robert Harold—who so lately courted Miss Mildmay?’

"The very same," cried I, running to the door, and bolting it— ‘and you are the Sir Harry Hastings, who have been villain enough to carry off that admirable woman, in a forcible manner, from her family; and to imprison her for several months in a house, where her delicacy was to be treated with a continued round of outrage, and where the imprisonment of her person was to do an irreparable injury to her reputation.—Draw, Sir,—for the same providential dispensation which has delivered her out of your hands, now delivers you up for punishment to mine.’

"Mighty pretty truly," returned Sir Harry, clapping his hand also upon his sword, but retreating a little— ‘and so I have been all this while unbosoming myself to my greatest enemy, upon a full supposition that I was making an agreeable acquaintance, if not a valuable friend?—Truly, a very pretty rencounter—but I deserve it all.—What business had this damn'd tongue of mine to run on so impertinently in the company of an absolute stranger?—And so, Sir Robert Harold, I must give you satisfaction for behaving like an infamous scoundrel to Miss Mildmay?’

"Sir," replied I impatiently, ‘this is no time for words.—The man who could behave basely to Louisa Mildmay, must be the greatest of all villains, and—’

‘I am glad to find you so extremely candid, Sir Robert,’ interrupted he sneeringly; ‘because, if you will only take the trouble of reflecting a little, you will find yourself much a greater villain than your humble servant.—You, Sir,’ continued he, altering his voice, and coming up fiercely to me, ‘You are a mighty proper person to commence a champion for the cause of virtue.—I carried off Louisa, it is true; and, though I own the action to be highly criminal, yet is it by any means so poor, so paltry, so despicable, as your conduct in assuming the sacred appearance of honour and attachment, to break in upon the unsuspecting confidence of her soul, and to blast her reputation? Her character, Sir, was as unsullied as the noontide beams of heaven, 'till you insidiously found means to steal upon her affections, and, in an accursed hour, like the basest of all scoundrels, infamously violated every law of hospitality—every sentiment of friendship—and every protestation of love.—I have violated no law of hospitality—have broke no link of friendship—have burst no protestation of love.—On the contrary, so far was I from wishing to betray Louisa Mildmay, that I was even willing to take her, stained and polluted as she was by your baseness, and did not hesitate an instant to participate in her shame.—And shall you, the original author of all her misfortunes, shall you take upon you to call others to an account?—Shall you, a villain of such deeper dye, stand up as an advocate for injured innocence; and talk of chastizing offenders, who are, comparatively, spotless to yourself?—Audacious scoundrel! let me rather, as infinitely the least culpable of the two, here take vengeance upon you, for all the calamities which have befallen a woman, whom I doat upon to distraction.—From the moment I first heard of your success with her, your very name planted a thousand scorpions in my bosom; and I would have sacrificed you to my rage, had not an indication of my resentment been likely to disappoint my designs upon Louisa.—I therefore studiously avoided seeing you, well knowing the vehemence of my own temper.—But the time is now come—and it is not a little of your blood, which can gratify the greediness of my revenge.’

Melmoth, cowardice and guilt are inseparable companions.—By the God of Heaven, this harangue of Sir Harry's almost petrified me.—I felt myself a paltry despicable villain; and I actually believe, had not his sword been already pointed at my bosom, the justice of his reply would have sham'd my resentment into silence, and awed me into all conscientious acknowledgments of the keenest self-reproach—but my manhood was roused at the sight of his naked weapon; and to it we went, with as determined a malignity, as ever rankled in the breasts of men.—Sir Harry had great command of his sword, and was prodigiously strong in the arm—for some time he thought to conquer me by a mere exertion of force;—but finding this method ineffectual, he threw out one of those exquisite feints, which none but a master indeed should ever think of giving into.—I don't believe he thought me so good a swordsman as I really am—however, before he could possibly recover himself, I made so rapid a lunge, that my sword was half way through his right breast; and the violence of the thrust, together with the acuteness of the pain, brought him instantly to the floor.—The noise which our combat occasioned, by this time bringing up the people of the house, I thought it highly necessary to think of making my escape, especially as they all cried out, he's a dead man; and he himself advised me to set immediately off.—I did so—and, leaving Edwards to follow with my baggage, I quitted Paris in less than an hour, and shall embark in a few minutes for Dover.

Such is the history of this quarrel—and now, Charles hear me attentively:—The moment you receive this, go to lady Haversham, and tell her, that if Louisa and her friends are not entirely reconciled, and ready to receive me at my going over. I shall take an everlasting leave of England, and perhaps, banish myself for life, from any degree of converse with human society.—Tell her that what my angel has suffered, and suffered chiefly through my means, has rendered her so inconceivably dear to my fond heart, that a new disappointment will probably drive me to some instant act of desperation.—In short, Charles, tell lady Haversham every thing which is most likely to alarm her tenderness, or work upon her generosity.—But why do I affront the excellent woman with a doubt of this unnecessary nature?—Why do I suppose—But, Charles, I will neither talk of doubts nor supposes—The first are the greatest injury to the benignity of her heart; and the latter, I hope, is a violence to the justice of my own. Adieu, therefore, my dear Melmoth, and be assured, that, let my fate be whatsoever it may, I must be, as long as I live,

Your true friend, R. HAROLD.

LETTER XXI. Lady HAVERSHAM to the Countess of BLANDFORD.

My dear Lady BLANDFORD,

MY cares are now over—Bob is at last married to Miss Mildmay—and has turned out the very thing I always thought he would—a man of real probity, and sound understanding.—Your ladyship already knows what a variety of misfortunes attended my sweet sister, from the time of her expulsion from her father's, till her departure from the Magdalen.—So that all which is necessary for me to relate, is the reception which her family gave her, and the reception which she gave my brother.

I have already told you, that the moment her poor parents saw her letter to Miss Beauclerk, they wrote up to me, desiring me to take her instantly away from the strange asylum which she had chosen in her delirium, and promising to be in town within a week, when every thing should be settled to my satisfaction; for I had frequently told them, how passionately Bob continued to love the unfortunate young lady, under all the disadvantages of what we considered a scandalous elopement.—They at the same time sent me up Louisa's little history, where I saw plainly enough, that notwithstanding the unaccountable part which my brother had acted, the dear deceived girl could not, by any means, erase him from her heart.—A copy of this letter I therefore got that worthy man, Mr. Melmoth, to take, for Bob's immediate use, and flew myself to the Magdalen, to which, as I have been, upon some occasions, a benefactress, I have always access, and enquired for Louisa by her assumed appellation of Windham.—The good Mrs. Dobson, and her sister, who have acquired so just a consideration with Louisa, were with her when I went in—the two honest women, it seems, are intimately acquainted with the matron, and that acquaintance admitted them, whenever they pleased, to Miss Windham.—They were now sitting in the matron's room, when my appearance threw the little group into the greatest consternation.—Louisa, the moment she saw me, started from her seat with a light'ning-like rapidity, and exclaiming, ‘Lady Haversham! lady Haversham!’ fainted instantly in my arms.—Her two friends seemed prodigiously struck—but nevertheless exerted themselves so successfully in recovering her, that she was quickly in a capacity of conversing; which, when they found, they proposed to withdraw, though Mrs. Dobson had a visible reluctance in her manner, that made me consider her with extraordinary attention.—Miss Mildmay, however, would not suffer them to stir; but, taking each by the hand, presented them with such a grace to me, that I could not help kissing her heartily for the condescending dignity of the recollection.— ‘My dear lady Haversham,’ says she, ‘you have, I suppose, seen my letter to Miss Beauclerk.’ —I answered in the affirmative.—"Why then," continued she, ‘give me leave to present two of the worthiest creatures in the universe to your ladyship.—This, Madam, is the excellent Mrs. Dobson—and this the beneficent Mrs. Carter, whom I have mentioned in that paper.’

I rose, and saluted each of them; thanking them in the warmest terms, for their generous attention to Miss Mildmay; and, begging to know in what manner I could be serviceable to them on her account.—"O, Madam," cried Mrs. Dobson, falling on her knees, and kissing my hand with great eagerness, ‘you have been long entitled to our utmost services—to the everlasting prayers of me and my whole family.—Your ladyship's munificent hand, and your noble brother's, have been the blessed instruments of Providence, to snatch both me and mine from destruction.—Your ladyship may remember the unhappy farmer Jenkins, of Salisbury, who was thrown into gaol through the inhumanity of a brutal landlord, for resenting an indecent liberty taken with his daughter: I, Madam, was wife to that Jenkins, and mother to that daughter.—Your gracious brother redeemed my husband from prison, and gave a marriage portion with my child.—Your ladyship scarcely heard of Sir Robert's unexampled generosity, before you sent us down such a sum, as enabled us to pay off all our debts, and set us, once more, above the frowns of the world.—We were utterly unknown both to your brother and you; and had no recommendation to your pity, but the merit of our distress.—May the great God of heaven and earth, shower down eternal blessings upon both your heads; and may you both feel that happiness a hundred times doubled, with which you filled the hearts of both me and mine!’

Grateful, generously-minded creature!—My dear lady Blandford, you can't think how the tears rolled down my cheeks at this pathetic address.—I remembered the name perfectly well; and it was the merit of my brother's behaviour on that occasion, which originally rivetted him to the bosom of Louisa.— You recollect the affair yourself, I dare say; for I believe I shewed you, as a curiosity, what a well-written letter of thanks I received from poor Mrs. Jenkins, immediately after I had ordered the remittance, which dwelt so strongly upon the good woman's memory. I raised her up, you may be sure, as soon as I possibly could, and told her, that the young lady whom she had befriended so much, would, I hope, in a short time, honour my brother with her hand, as the match was what lay closely to the heart of both our families.—She heard me with a look that indicated a wildness of satisfaction; and, bursting into a loud flood of tears, ran about the room, crying, "Thank God!—thank God!—I have lived to be of some little use to my benefactors!"

You will undoubtedly be surprized, my dear lady Blandford, at finding the wife of a poor husbandman expressing herself with such an air of elegance, as Mrs. Dobson.—The heart of the meanest peasant may be as sentimentally elegant as a prince's—but it is education alone, which forms the delivery of our sentiments, and gives the customary characteristic of order and distinction.—For my own part, I was so much surprized at her manner, that I could not help telling her how greatly it struck me—To which she modestly replied, ‘That I was all goodness—but that her father was a curate in Wiltshire, who had several children, and not more than forty pounds a year—At the same time, therefore,’ continued she, ‘that he took every necessary care about the improvement of our minds, he took care to bring us up in a manner that suited with the narrowness of our fortunes—so that we became somewhat remarkable through the neighbourhood for our industry, and our education.—We all married men of humble situations; and hence arises the trifling disparity which your ladyship is pleased to observe between our conversation and our circumstances.’ —But to go on—

Having shewn Louisa the letter I received from her father, she consented to go away with me instantly; but begged that Mrs. Dobson and Mrs. Carter would favour her with their company, whenever she took the liberty to request it.—The worthy women assured her of their immediate concurrence, and we parted with many tears on both sides, after I had left a fifty pound bill for the use of the charity.

Louisa was at my house about four days, when her father and her mother came to town.—The dear girl, though she impatiently longed to see them, was, however, extremely terrified at the thoughts of their approach. "How, my dear lady Haversham," would she exclaim, ‘shall I be ever able to look them in the face?—There is one guilt which I acknowledge; and they have nothing but my own word to purge away the imputation of a second.—Mrs. Darnell's assertion may be taken as soon as mine.—Good God! how shall I look them in the face?’

They came at last—but with hearts prepossessed entirely as she could wish. They had seen some of Hastings's favourite servants, before their departure from the country; and, partly by menaces, and partly by bribes, they came at the truth, which corresponded exactly with the relation of Louisa.—Sensible, therefore, only to her late sufferings, the father and the brother entirely forgot their resentment, on account of her original error; and the doating mother, who considered matters in a more tender light than either, was even ready to condemn herself, for agreeing to the expulsion of so deserving a daughter, when she came to weigh all the misfortunes which that expulsion had fatally produced.—In this frame of mind the three came to town, attended by Mrs. and Miss Beauclerck, when Louisa was informed they were all below stairs.—Sweet girl, how she trembled!—how she wept!—By the force of hartshorn and argument, I, however, recovered her, and she came down, leaning on my arm, into the back parlour, where they were assembled.—She had scarcely entered the room, when the poor mother, frantic almost with impatience and joy, sprung from her seat, and, fastening round her neck, strained her in her arms, with a violence that almost bordered upon distraction.—Louisa's feelings were no less exquisite—She endeavoured to return the embrace with an equal degree of fervour, and both sunk lifeless upon the floor, before either could give utterance to a single word.—The colonel ran to his sister; while the venerable old gentleman seemed entirely employed about the recovery of his excellent lady;—as to Mrs. Beauclerck, her daughter, and myself, we could scarcely afford them any assistance for our tears.

When the mother and the daughter became somewhat composed, the latter threw herself at her father's feet, and begged at once his pardon and his blessing.—The old gentleman, whose heart was long since melted, looked at her for some time, with an eagerness of silent rapture, as if he was perfectly willing, yet totally unable, to comply with her request: at last, no longer master of himself, he fell instinctively upon his knees, as she knelt, and, catching her in his arms, exclaimed, ‘O my child, my child!’ and sobbed out with such a violence, that one would imagine his heart was absolutely bursting.—We, therefore, tore him up in a manner;—but Louisa was rivetted on her knees—there was no prevailing upon her to rise.—After her father was forced into a chair, she turned to her brother, who now hung weeping over her; and, while a large drop seem fastened upon each of her cheeks, she cried out— ‘O, Harry, what has my infamy cost you!—Can you—but it is impossible—you never can forgive the wretch who has—but are you actually recovered?—O what a wretch am I, to involve every body, who loves me, in destruction!’ —The colonel replied to this, in a manner equally polite and tender; and Mrs. and Miss Beauclerk now coming to claim some little share of her attention, Louisa began to grow more temperate, and received them both with the warmest tokens of a most cordial affection.—In a little time we were all restored to ourselves; and the whole company were kind enough to become my guests, during their continuation in town; nay, in less than two hours, Miss Mildmay, at the desire of her parents, consented to overlook my brother's behaviour; and a chariot was dispatched for Mrs. Dobson and Mrs. Carter, whom Mrs. Mildmay impatiently wanted to see, and who good-naturedly came to us in less than two hours more.—But now, my dear lady Blandford, prepare for something extraordinary—

Mr. Melmoth, whom we have long thought a mighty worthy man, and who, for many years past, has been indulging a most melancholly turn of disposition, on account of a wife and an infant, who died while he was quite a young man, and abroad, is now the happiest of human beings:—he has found that wife, and that child, in the person of Mrs. Beauclerck, and her amiable daughter.—Two days after Mr. Mildmay came to town, Mr. Melmoth received a letter from my brother, with orders to communicate it instantly to me; and as Mr. Melmoth has a friendship of an uncommon nature for Bob, he never hesitates a moment to execute his commands—(but, by the bye, lady Blandford, you will see what a narrow escape Bob has had in another duel.—God grant it may be the last—for if any accident should happen to him, I should absolutely run distracted.)—Well, as I was saying, Mr. Melmoth came to my house after dinner, and, requesting to speak with me in private, produced my brother's letter; observing that Providente seemed particularly inclined to exculpate Miss Mildmay; and no less desirous of punishing those, in an exemplary manner, who had been intentionally instrumental (that was his qualifying word for Bob's sake) in that young lady's distress.—I took the letter with a trembling hand; and, though I rejoiced at this undeniable confirmation of Louisa's rectitude, still it was with the greatest difficulty I could get through the account of the duel, which you will find inclosed in this pacquet.—I was obliged to use my har•shorn twenty times;—and I don't know that I could have read it at all, had not Mr. Melmoth previously assured me, that my brother was in health.

When I had at last got through the contents, I insisted upon Mr. Melmoth's going in with me to the company, as he was intimately known by character to every body, though with some he might be unacquainted by person.—He accordingly complied; but judge, my dear, the universal astonishment, when, at the very instant of his entrance, Mrs Beauclerck screamed out, "Mr. Villars!"—and fell back into her chair.—Alarmed at the name, the manner, and the voice, he flew to her, and exclaiming, ‘O my Nancy, my Nancy,’ raised her up in his arms; while her beautiful daughter ran wild to her assistance, not knowing what to think of this extravagant surprize.—Not to keep you any longer in suspence, my dear lady Blandford, the company soon discovered, that Mrs. Beauclerk was the long lost wife of Mr. Melmoth; and that some very extraordinary circumstance had divided them, without any fault on either side, for a painful series of years.—What, however, appeared very strange, was, that each imagined the other to be dead; and that the information concerning the death of each, was communicated to the other, by no less indubitable a channel of intelligence, than Mr. Melmoth's own father.—Mr. Melmoth's father, it seems, was a great East-India merchant, and intended to give his son a large fortune—but the young gentleman falling in love, and marrying contrary to his father's consent, the old man would not be reconciled to him upon any terms, but his taking a voyage to the Indies, and continuing abroad for an interval of three years.—Mr. Melmoth, having no resource for the maintenance of his wife, but his father's bounty, thought it better to accept of these cruel conditions, than to expose the woman of his soul to penury and distress: he complied, therefore, though with a bleeding heart, and accordingly set out in about thirteen months after their marriage, just as she had been delivered of a daughter.—He had scarce reached the place of his destination in the Indies, when his father wrote over a melancholly letter, containing an account of his wife's death, and his child's; and advising him to think of enlarging the term of his residence in that quarter of the globe. This was an advice which, the young gentleman readily pursued. After the loss of all that was most dear to his wishes, England became hateful to his thoughts, and he did not return, till two years after the death of his father; when he had the mortification to find, that the old gentleman had left all his wealth to some remoter branches of his family.—Young Mr. Villars, for so I shall now call him, though disappointed in his expectations of succeeding to his father's fortune, was, however, in very affluent circumstances himself. During his residence abroad, he had acquired immense riches, and had been left by a friend no less than eighty thousand pounds to take the name of Melmoth. His property, when he came home, he chiefly laid out in the purchase of lands; and Bob has told me repeatedly, the value of his estates is a clear seven thousand a year.—Yet, though he came home a very young man, and a very rich one, he still avoided mixing much with society.—The company of women he particularly shunned; and employed himself chiefly in acts of beneficence, and literary researches.—I don't recollect by what accident my brother Bob and he became originally acquainted—but, notwithstanding the disparity of years, and the diametrically opposite cast of complexions, he entertained a very high esteem for Bob; and would sometimes, on his account, visit at my house, and be sociable.—I always respected him—I saw what an excellent heart he possessed; and he gained my esteem entirely, by the almost parental solicitude which he shewed for the welfare of my giddy-headed brother—and see, my dear, how Providence has rewarded him.—In the very moment that he was labouring for the happiness of other people, we see his own tranquillity restored; and find, that the benignity which induced him to mitigate the distresses of his friends, has been the principal means of removing all those distresses under which he struggled himself.—Who, lady Blandford, ought not to be virtuous, even from interest?—since, if the consciousness of having performed a good action, is not a sufficient reward, we are so generally certain of finding it highly to our advantage in the end?—But now, to say something of Mrs. Villars—This lady, on the supposed death of her husband, was reduced to some difficulties for support—and, had not a distant relation unexpectedly left her a considerable sum of money, she, perhaps, had found it necessary to work for bread. Old Mr. Villars would not advance her a shilling;—and few are fond of cultivating a friendship with calamity.—Soured, therefore, at the world, and absolutely wretched for the loss of her husband, the moment she found herself in circumstances, she retired to a sequestered habitation in the country, and has lived there ever since in a very private manner, visiting very few people, and continuing an intimacy scarcely at any house but Mr. Mildmay's.

Thus far, lady Blandford, Mr. and Mrs. Villars's story seemed to account for their separation; but still there wanted some probable causes for old Mr. Villars's conduct, as well as for his daughter-in-law's assuming the name of Beauclerk. Most of us, therefore, honestly expressed our surprize, that the consideration of Mr. Melmoth's marrying a young lady without a fortune, could induce his father to practise so barbarous a deceit upon an only son; and Mr. Melmoth himself seemed astonished, that his lady should, without any reasonable foundation, sacrifice his name, while she continued to dedicate herself so religiously to his memory.—Mrs. Melmoth blushed, and only said, she had her reasons.—

"That she had," cried out Mrs. Dobson, (who had been in the house some time, and now eagerly thrust herself forward.) I was amazed at the good woman; and, indeed, so was all the company:—but as she appeared pregnant with something of importance, Mr. Melmoth entreated she would go on.—

"I will, Sir," answered she; ‘but, first of all, give me leave to ask you a question or two.—Pray, do you recollect one William Dobson, who formerly was a favourite servant of your father's?’ —

"Yes; very well," returned Mr. Melmoth.—

‘And pray, don't you recollect, that, before your marriage with Miss Nancy Markham, the lady who now stands here, was publicly known, the same William Dobson one day told you, in confidence, that your father was in love with Miss Markham, and intended to offer very advantageous settlements, in hopes that the greatness of the proposal, might obviate the difference of his age, and induce her to accept of him as a husband? Pray, Sir, do you remember this?’

"Yes, Madam," replied Mr. Melmoth, "I remember it perfectly well."

‘Why then, Sir, the whole affair is nothing more than this—Your father, stung almost to madness, at finding himself cut off from the first wish of his heart, resolved upon the barbarous method of separating you, and making each believe that the other was dead. An assurance of this nature coming from a father, could admit of no doubt; and you might either of you have entered into a second marriage, even before accident had undeceived you. In either case, the discovery of the deceit would have only increased your distress; and in the former, so long as it remained undiscovered, so long he was certain of making you miserable.—This was not, however, the whole of his design.—If he could make your lady entertain a belief of your demise, he thought it still possible for himself, at some opportunity, to gratify the horrid purposes of his imagination.—Though she was his daughter, he still continued to love her; and once, I believe, actually insinuated a proposition that must be shocking to humanity.—This was at a time when her necessities were extreme, and when he hoped the severity of her situation would lessen the horror of his overture.—But let me hurry from this dreadful part of my narrative—When he found himself treated with the abhorrence which he merited—when your lady even threatened to expose him to the world, and talked of applying instantly to a magistrate, if he ever more came within her doors, he grew outrageous—he hired ruffians to insult her; and omitted no opportunity of slandering her reputation. When, therefore, she retired from London, she found it I suppose necessary to change her name, for fear of his infamous machinations.—This was what he told my husband he was fearful of; and it is very fortunate the lady took that precaution; for I have been well assured, he made every possible enquiry, to discover the place of her retreat.’ —

"Gracious God!" exclaimed Mr. Melmoth, ‘and can there be such fathers?—But pray, Madam, tell me by what means you have gained this information.’ —

‘From the repository of all his secrets, William Dobson, Sir; whom, after the death of a former husband, once the object of lady Haversham's benevolence, I married.—Mr. Dobson often told me the story, and severely reproached himself at times, for continuing in the old gentleman's service.—But it seems he was a liberal master, and therefore William, I suppose, endeavoured to check the pungency of his reflections.—Mr. Dobson, Sir, died about six months ago; and, on his death-bed, conjured me, if ever I found a proper opportunity, to make this discovery.—I would not disturb the ashes of the dead unnecessarily; but the surprize which you expressed at your lady's change of name, affecting me in a very particular manner, I could conceal the circumstance no longer.—Perhaps I have been presumptuous.—I beg pardon of the honourable company; and hope they will excuse my impertinence, from a just consideration of my end.’ —

Lady Blandford, did you ever hear so dreadful a story?—The barbarous—but let us not think of the monster—the bare idea of him curdles my very blood, and I shake with horror at the recollection of having written so much on so detestable a subject.—

When Mrs. Dobson had done her story, every body endeavoured to shift the conversation; and none of us having yet felicitated Mr. Melmoth on his happy discovery of such a wife, and such a daughter, we took this opportunity of doing it very sincerely.—The worthy man was all extasy; while the two ladies sat between Mrs. Mildmay and Louisa, enjoying a thousand exquisite feelings at so fortunate an event; and every now and then testifying their satisfaction with an expressive flood of tears.—Mr. Melmoth, my dear lady Blandford, will be now quite another creature.—His temper has already undergone a total alteration; and you cannot think how pleased I am at the impatience which he manifests, if he is but a moment absent from his newfound happiness. He loves his wife with an excess of tenderness, and indeed well he may—for a more excellent, or a more lovely woman, of her age, I believe, is not to be found in England.—His daughter too is as fine a young lady in person, as ever I saw, and has a mind that even adds a lustre to her external accomplishments.—Well, and what do you think has been already done about her?—why, her father offered fifty thousand pounds with her to colonel Mildmay; and old Mr. Mildmay is so heartily for the match, that he proposes to make a double wedding of it, the moment my brother arrives in town.—Four and twenty hours ago, Mr. Mildmay would not have consented so readily to his son's marriage with Miss Beauclerk.—But Miss Melmoth's fortune has an irresistible charm; and fifty thousand pounds will be no trifling affair to support the coronet which he expects in his family.—Yet I don't know but this reflection would be a little cruel to the good old man, if I was writing to any body but lady Blandford.

Mr. Mildmay, his lady, and the colonel, (for Mr. Melmoth deprived me of two visitors) were now in town about five days, when Bob arrived at my door; The father and son were looking through the parlour window, when he stopped, and both ran out good-naturedly to meet him, and insisted he would make no apologies for what was past.—Faults, they observed, had been on both sides; and since he had chastized that villain Hastings, they could forgive him every thing.—Bob, lady Blandford, was in a most elegant undress, and really looked charmingly.—Louisa, who was prepared to expect him every hour, was not much alarmed when he was introduced. She and her mamma were sitting in the dining room, when he came up between Mr. Mildmay and the colonel.—I led the van; and Alexander himself, in the midst of all his victories, I am pretty certain, never experienced one half of my satisfaction.—You know how I love the recreant, and how I esteem the Mildmays.—This happy reconciliation, therefore, almost overcame me—so that instead of saying any thing to Louisa on my entrance, I retired to a sopha in one corner of the room, and indulged myself in a delicious flood of tears.—Bob, however, was all himself: with an air of the deepest respect, yet of the greatest manliness, he went up to the two ladies, and, falling on his knee, held a hand of each alternately to his lips, without once breaking out into any aukward excuses; which, as matters then stood, must have called back disagreeable images, and been little else, in fact, than so many insinuated affronts.—Louisa was all sweetness and confusion—the mother, nothing but sensibility and joy—both, at length, however, insisted upon his rising; and he got up with such a grace—to be sure, lady Blandford, there is not a finer young fellow in the kingdom—and, as he is now in so fair a way of being good, you must allow me to speak of him with my utmost partiality. In the evening Mr. Melmoth came with his lady and daughter.—How did my generous Bob—(I will call him my Bob now) exult in the happiness of his friend! and how did that equally generous friend rejoice at the happiness of my brother!—In short, all our hearts overflowed with delight; and, to render this delight the more permanent, we fairly married the two couple at St. George's, Hanover-Square, the very next morning.

I have been so busy since the celebration of these weddings, that the writing of this letter has taken me up a whole week; and yet, long as it is now, and, fatigued as I am with drawing it up, I cannot conclude, without informing you of some farther particulars.—Hastings's wound, blessed be God, is not mortal.—A friend from Paris sends word, that it had a dangerous appearance at first; but that, by the skill of a very able surgeon, the patient will be soon in a fair way of recovering.—Criminal as that man may be, still it is a terrible thing to have the blood of a fellow-creature upon our hands.—But the vile Mrs. Darnel—I know not whether it is improper sometimes to be unconcerned at the misfortunes of the uncommonly wicked—That wretch, finding her infamous hypocrisy thus palpably detected, and, fearing both the reproach of the whole world, and the utmost severity of the law on account of her behaviour to Louisa, sold off her house and furniture, and, with the money it produced, prepared to embark for France—but in going down the river for that purpose, the boat accidentally overset, and the miserable creature, together with the woman who had been the principal instrument in the barbarous behaviour to my sister, was drowned.—As for lady Harold's own maid, Sally, one of my brother's men assures him, she died in an hospital, of a distemper that naturally resulted from her crimes.—Thus you see, in the short story of our family, my dear lady Blandford, that vice is sure to be punished at last, however prosperous it may appear in the setting out: whereas virtue, let it be never so depressed in the beginning, is always certain of triumphing in the end.—In the course of our little novel, all the worthy characters of distinction have been made happy, and Louisa will take care that none of the inferior ones shall go unrewarded. Mrs. Dobson is to be her housekeeper, with an annuity of a hundred pounds for life; and the good woman's garden is to be settled on her children in the country.—Mrs. Carter's Sally is to attend my sister in quality of woman; and my Bob has taken a large house in St. James's Market for the mother; which, when properly stocked and fitted up, he intends her as a present, and has no doubt but she will be soon able to give her daughter such a fortune, as will get her a very excellent husband. —God bless you, my dear lady Blandford—take care of your health, and set me down as

Your ever affectionate, THEODOSIA HAVERSHAM.

Information about this book

Title statement

Memoirs of a Magdalen: or, the history of Louisa Mildmay. Now first published from a series of original letters. In two volumes. ... [pt.2]

Kelly, Hugh, 1739-1777.

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4566

ID [isbn10]

1106015657

ID [isbn13]

9781106015655

ID [TCP]

K061209.002

ID [BIBNO]

CW3309262041

ID [ECLL]

0021800702

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— Memoirs of a Magdalen: or, the history of Louisa Mildmay. Now first published from a series of original letters. In two volumes. ..., Kelly, Hugh, 1739-1777.. 2v. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for W. Griffen,. 1767.. [Anonymous. By Hugh Kelly.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT72182.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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