To Lady Anne Wilmot.
BEFORE I absolutely accept or refuse
your Ladyship's generous invitation,
allow me to account to you for my being
in a place where you so little expected to
find me; but which I am convinced you
will acquiesce in my continuing in, when
you know the motives which induced me to
make choice of it.
When my uncle married your Ladyship,
you remember he left me in a convent at
Paris, where I staid till his death. I should
then have returned; but, having contracted
a very great friendship for a young Lady
of the first quality in England, she pressed
me to continue there till her return,
which was fixed for the year following.
About three months before we intended to
leave Paris, her brother arrived, on which
occasion she left the convent, and went to
spend her remaining time with an aunt who
then resided in France, and who, being told
I had staid the last year in complaisance to
her amiable niece, insisted on my accompanying
her. To spare a long narrative of
common events, the brother of my friend
became passionately in love with me, and I
was so unhappy as to be too sensible to his
tenderness: he entreated me to conceal our
attachment from his sister for the present;
professed the most honourable designs; told
me he did not doubt of bring his father to
consent to a marriage, to which there could
be no objection that was not founded in the
most sordid avarice, and on which the happiness
of his life depended.
The time of our intended return to England
drawing near, he employed, and successfully,
the power he had over my heart
to influence my acceptance of an invitation
give me, by a friend of my mother's, to
accompany her to Florence, where I promised
to stay till his return from Rome.
Too much in love, as he said, and I
weakly believed, to support a longer absence,
he came in a few months to Florence;
we were then in the country with a Florentine
Nobleman, whose Lady was related to
my friend, to whom he was strongly recommended,
and who gave him an invitation
to his villa; which I need not tell you he
accepted. We saw each other continually,
but under a restraint, which, whilst it encreased
our mutual passion, was equally painful
to both. At length he contrived to give
me a letter, pressing me to see him alone in
the garden at an hour he mentioned. I went,
and found the most beloved of men waiting
for me in a grove of oranges. He saw me
at a distance: I stopped by an involuntary
impulse; he ran to me; he approached me
with a transport which left me no room to
doubt of his affection.
After an hour spent in vows of everlasting
love, he pressed me to marry him privately;
which I refused with an air of firmness
but little suited to the state of my heart,
and protested no consideration should ever
induce me to give him my hand without the
consent of his father.
He expressed great resentment of a resolution,
which, he affirmed, was inconsistent
with a real passion; pretended jealousy of a
young Nobleman in the house, and artfully
hinted at returning immediately to England;
then, softening his voice, implored
my compassion, vowed he could not live
without me; and so varied his behaviour
from rage to the most seducing softness,
that the fear of displeasing him, who was
dearer to me than life, assisted by the tender
persuasive eloquence of well-dissembled
love, so far prevailed over the dictates of
reason and strict honor, that, unable to resist
his despair, I consented to a clandestine
marriage: I then insisted on returning immediately
to the house, to which he consented,
though unwillingly, and, leaving me
with all the exulting raptures of successful
love, went to Florence to prepare a priest
to unite us, promising to return with him
in the morning: the next day passed, and
the next, without my hearing of him; a whole
week elapsed in the same manner: convinced
of his affection, my fears were all for his
safety; my imagination presented danger in
every form, and, no longer able to support
the terrors of my mind filled with a thousand
dreadful ideas, I sent a servant to enquire
for him at the house where he lodged,
who brought me word he had left Florence
the very morning on which I expected his
return. Those only who have loved like
me can conceive what I felt at this news;
but judge into what an abyss of misery I
was plunged, on receiving a few hours after
a letter from his sister, pressing me to return
to her at Paris, where she was still waiting,
in compliance with order from home
for her brother, who was to accompany her
to England directly, to marry an heiress for
whom he had been long intended by his father;
she added that I must not lose a moment,
for that her brother would, before
I could receive the letter, be on the road
to Paris.
Rage, love, pride, resentment, indignation,
now tore my bosom alternately. After
a conflict of different passions, I determined
on forgetting my unworthy lover, whose
neglect appeared to me the contemptible insolence
of superior fortune: I left the place
the next day, as if for Paris; but, taking
the nearest way to England, came hither
to a clergyman's widow, who had been a
friend of my mother's; to whom I told my
story, and with whom I determined to stay
concealed, till I heard the fate of my lover.
I made a solemn vow, in the first heat of my
resentment, never to write to him, or let
him know my retreat, and, though with infinite
difficulty, I have hitherto kept it.
But what have I not suffered for this conduct,
which, though my reason dictates, my
heart condemns! A thousand times have I
been on the point of discovering myself to
him, and at least giving him an opportunity
of vindicating himself. I accused myself
of injustice in condemning him unheard,
and on appearances which might be false.
So weak is a heart in love, that, though,
when I chose my place of retreat, I was ignorant
of that circumstance, it was with
pleasure, though a pleasure I endeavoured
to hide from myself, that I heard it was only
ten miles from his father's eat. I ought certainly
to have changed it on this knowledge,
but find a thousand plausible reasons
to the contrary, and am but too successful
in deceiving myself.
Convinced of the propriety of my conduct
in avoiding him, I am not the more
happy. My heart betrays me, and represents
him continually to my imagination in
the most amiable light, as a faithful lover,
injured by my suspicions, and made wretched
by my loss.
Torn by sentiments which vary every
moment; the struggles of my soul have
impaired my health, and will in time put
an end to a life, to the continuance of
which, without him, I am perfectly indifferent.
Determined, however, to persist in a conduct,
which, whatever I suffer from it, is
certainly my duty, I cannot, as I hear he is
returned, consent to come to Belmont; where
it is scarce possible I should fail meeting a
man of his rank, who must undoubtedly be
of Lord Belmont's acquaintance.
'Till he is married, or I am convinced I
have injured him, I will not leave this retreat;
at least I will not appear where I
am almost certain of meeting him whom I
ought for ever to avoid.
Oh! Lady Anne! How severe is this trial!
How painful the conquest over the sweetest
affections of the human heart! How mortifying
to love an object which one has
ceased to esteem! Convinced of his unworthiness,
my passion remains the same, nor
will ever cease but with life: I at once despise
and adore him: yes, my tenderness is,
if possible, more lively than ever; and,
though he has doomed me to misery, I
would die to contribute to his happiness.
You, Madam, will, I know, pity and forgive
the inconsistencies of a heart ashamed
of its own weaknesses, yet to sincere to disguise
or palliate them. I am no stranger
to your nobleness of sentiment; in your
friendship and compassion all my hopes of
tranquillity are founded. I will endeavour
to conquer this ill-placed prepossession, and
render myself more worthy your esteem.
If his marriage with another makes it impossible
for him to suppose I throw myself
designedly in his way, I will go with you
to town in the winter, and try if the hurry
of the world can erase his image from my
bosom. If he continues unconnected, and
no accident clears up to me his conduct, I
will continue where I am, and for ever hide
my folly in this retreat.
I am, &c.
A. Hastings
Poor Bell! how I pity her! Heaven
certainly means love for our reward in another
world, it so seldom makes it happy in
this. But why do we blame Heaven? It is
our own prejudices, our rage for wealth,
our cowardly compliance with the absurd
opinions of others, which robs us of all the
real happiness of life.
I should be glad to know who this despicable
fellow is: though really it is possible
she may injure him. I must know his name,
and find out whether or not she is torturing
herself without reason. If he bears scrutinizing,
our plans may coincide, and my
jointure make us all happy; if not, he
shall have the mortification of knowing
she has an easy fortune; and of seeing her,
what it shall be my business to make her
next winter, one of the most fashionable
women, and celebrated toasts, about town.
After all, are we not a little in the machine
style, not to be able to withdraw our
love when our esteem is at an end? I suppose
one might find a philosophical reason
for this in Newton's Laws of Attraction.
The heart of a woman does, I imagine, naturally
gravitate towards a handsome, well
dressed, well-bred fellow, without enquiry
into his mental qualities. Nay, as to that, do
not let me be partial to you odious men; you
have as little taste for mere internal charms
as the lightest coquette in town. You talk
sometimes of the beauties of the mind; but
I should be glad, as somebody has said very
well, to see one of you in love with a mind
of threescore.
I am really sorry for Bell; but hope to
bring her out of these heroics by Christmas.
The town air, and being followed five or six
weeks as a beauty, will do wonders. I
know no specific for a love-fit like a constant
round of pretty fellows.
The world, I dare say, will soon restore
her to her senses; it is impossible she
should ever regain them in a lonely village,
with no company but an old woman.
How dearly we love to nurse up our follies!
Bell, I dare say, fancies vast merit in
this romantic constancy to a man who, if he
knew her absurdity, would laugh at it.
I have no patience with my own sex, for
their want of spirit.
Friday Night.
O Heavens! who could have thought
it? Of all the birds in the air, find me out
Lord Melvin for Bell Hasting's lover: Nothing
was ever so charming: to tell the story,
which does his business here in a moment;
serves my lovely Harry, and punishes the
wretch's infidelity as it deserves. Adieu!
I fly to communicate.
Saturday Morning.
All this is very strange to me. Lord Belmont,
to whom I last night mentioned Lord
Melvin's connexion with Bell, as a reason
against his marrying Lady Julia, assures me
no such thing was ever intended; that he
was amazed how I came to think so; that
Lord Rochdale has other views for his son,
to which, however, he is averse. I am glad
to hear this last circumstance; and hope Bell
has wronged him by her suspicions.
But who can this be that is intended for
Lady Julia? I do not love to be impertinent;
but my curiosity is rather excited. I
shall not sleep till I am in this secret; I
must follow my Lord about till I get a clue
to direct me. How shall I begin the attack?
"Really, my Lord, says I, this surprizes
me extremely, I could have sworn Lord
Melvin was the person your Lordship
meant; if it is not him, who can it be?"
Yes, this will do; I will go to him directly
— Cruel man! how he plays with
my anxiety! He is gone out in a post-chaise
with Lady Julia; the chaise drove from
the door this moment.
I can say not a word more; I am on the
rack of expectation; I could not be more
anxious about a lover of my own.
"The hear of an earldom, and of an affluent
fortune." I have tortured my brain
this hour, and not a scruple the nearer.
Adieu!
