V I C I S S I T U D E S
I N
G E N T E E L
L I F E.
V I C I S S I T U D E S
I N
In FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
Faded Ideas float in the Fancy like
half-forgotten Dreams;
and Imagination, in its fullest enjoyments,
becomes
suspicious of its Offspring, and doubts
whether it has created or adopted.
S T A F F O R D:
PRINTED BY ARTHUR MORGAN.
T.N. LONGMAN,
PATER-NOSTER-ROW,
M. DCC. XCIV.
V I C C I S I T U D E S
I N
G E N T E E L
L I F E.
LETTER, I.
MR. STANLEY, TO SIR
CHARLES CONWAY.
THE merits of a cause
which can survive injudicious arguments in its favor, must, as a wiser man than
myself has observed, be singularly strong; as every weak and erroneous
sentiment advanced in its support, will have a tendency to lesson its
consequence, and we shall be sedulous to find fresh reasons for our partiality
to any previously-adopted contrary opinion; which, therefore, from its having been
unfairly and foolishly attacked, will, in the end, be more firmly established.
Need I say any thing farther to show you what must be the
fate of the cause, so absurd, so unjust in its nature, as that which you, most
unaccountably, have been led to espouse; or to convince you that my darling
system has received additional strength from the opposition with which it has
lately encountered?
Your letter, which was put into my hands as soon as I
alighted, is written in a style unusually serious; else, I should have imagined
you had been ridiculing, rather than supporting, my Godfather's foolish
proposal, as the arguments you advance upon the occasion, are diametrically
opposite to each other; being at once expressive of a respect for, and a
contempt of, riches. The contempt arises naturally in your heart; the respect
is spurious: for is not the texture of your soul generosity itself? It is; or I
have been mistaken in every idea I ever formed of you. Yet how is this
persuasion consistent with your wishing me to sacrifice all my happiness to
interest, as it is called, by determining to obey this positive old Slayton's
mandate?
“If I will marry, ACCORDING
TO HIS LIKING,” mind ye, within the next twelve months, he will give me down
Fifty Thousand Pounds, and secure to me Fifty Thousand more to be paid
at his death. If I refuse to comply, he will adopt a more distant, and almost
unknown relation; who will,” he says, “oblige him without
hesitation.”
Marry within the next twelve months, when I know not the woman
with whom I wish to live three weeks; much less one to whom I should like to be
fettered for life! absurd! ridiculous! am I to hunt round the island?—for she
must be an english woman. Or am I to advertise for a
female of such and such descriptions; and when she appears, though she answers
all the required expressed particulars, find her
intirely deficient in that nameless something, which alone can filch my heart
from its native home, for any length of time.
For any length of time,
let me repeat; it being in vain to deny that the vagrant has often over-leaped
the bounds within which dame prudence would confine it. But it never staid long
away. Some kind folly—some obliging weakness in its temporary queen, soon gave
it its freedom, and it returned to me uninjured.
But to be a little more serious about this foolish
business—I am really concerned that my father and mother enter so deeply into
Mr. Slayton's plan. Good; wise; excellent as they both are, they deserve almost
implicit obedience from their children. But, indeed, Charles, I cannot bring
myself to comply with the sacrifice they now require. They urge the great
obligations they were under in my tyrant-grandfather's days, to this whimsical,
though, I will allow, well-meaning veteran. What then! must I, to pay their
debt of gratitude, overwhelm myself with inevitable destruction? no: the
expectation is unreasonable. They urge, that his only view is my happiness.
Pray who can judge so well as myself in what my happiness consists? they
urge—in short, they urge as you do, so many unadmittable reasons for my
compliance, that I am now determined upon a downright refusal to all that any
of you can urge farther. You, I doubt not, have been drawn in to promise the exertion of the influence it is well known you
ever had with me. There is no other solution to the enigma of your attempting
arguments against your own native sentiments. But you have, likewise, promised
to me that your last letter shall close
your remonstrances upon the irksome subject. I am heartily glad of it, because
I shall now again break your seals with pleasure.
I am all impatience to see you at Alverston. Come
immediately. What the plague can be the matter with my sister? I am convinced
there is something more in the wind than you will tell me. Why this reserve?
why this unusual absence? I insist upon knowing every particular. Emma, I will
answer for it, is in fault, and that it is your tenderness for her which
incites you to spare her to me. Excellent as I must own I think her, upon the whole,
she has her errors: errors into which she is led by the vivacity of her
disposition: but that her heart is yours, is incontrovertible. She is my sister, and must be capable of distinguishing such—but
confound you for a blockheadly puppy, as my god-father says, I do not want to
increase the vanity from which you cannot be exempt. A handsome fellow with a
handsome estate and title, does not want to be told he has fifty other
recommendations. Besides, are you not my chosen friend? and is not that alone, sufficient
to give you consequence with the women? I tell you, Charles, to come soon to
Alverston.
GEORGE
STANLEY.
LETTER, II.
SIR CHARLES CONWAY, TO GEORGE
STANLEY, ESQ.
Hawthorn Grove, Feb. 5th.
YOUR messenger must not,
he says, return without an answer. What can I say to you! why go to Alverston!
Sir Edward and Lady Stanley have a just claim
to my esteem and reverence. You, and you know it, are possessed of my most fervent friendship; and your sister—what is it that she
does not command! all the foregoing sentiments of my soul connected and
heightened into the most ardent and, I think, refined affection that a mortal
is capable to conceive, I boast to entertain for Emma Stanley. But her late
treatment of me is more than I can bear: more
than I ought to bear. Flatter me not with an
idea of her partiality. If ever I was blest with the least degree of it, I have
forfeited it; though by what means I know not; it being impossible for a woman
of her very superior understanding to treat with such caprice any man whom she
thinks of as her future husband.
The rest of your letter I cannot now reply to; nor can I,
in the present situation of circumstances, go to Alverston.
Yours,
ever cordially
CHARLES CONWAY.
LETTER, III.
MR. STANLEY, TO SIR
CHARLES CONWAY.
Alverston, Friday, Feb.
13th.
FIRE and fury!
distraction! destruction! and death!—with all the unmeaning exclamations of
frenzical exclaimers!—what is now to be done? where can I be secure from the
effect of enchantment?
She is an angel, Charles!
absolutely an angel! at least, as to all my eyes can judge by; and that,
perhaps, is all that with my views—with my views, did I
say! what are my views? by all my hopes of
happiness, I know not. I have no views; not
one, that my eyes take pleasure in, save those in which I may possibly catch a
glympse of her. To the very sound of her steps, I listen with the greatest
avidity. Charles! you never beheld any thing half so handsome. Her lips!—I
never saw such a pair of beautiful lips in my life. Her eyes, it would be
madness to talk about, and very dangerous to mention either her hair or complexion. As to her form—her air—her
manner!—so betwitchingly genteel; so exquisitely graceful; so perfectly
elegant—but what an idiot am I to endeavour to describe this undescribable
beauty!
“Who in the name of amazement! is he in such raptures
about!? you have, I suppose, before reading thus far, half a score times
exclaimingly queried. Take a laconic answer. I do not know.
“Not know, George! and yet thus madly in love!” not know,
Charles, and yet thus madly [madly indeed] in
love. And now what farther have you to say?
You probably think it will be in vain to attempt talking
rationally with a fellow who just now gives such proof of insanity; and if you do, you think right; for I have never had anything to do
with rationality since I first saw her and heard her speak. And here, full in my view, comes the enchantress. She has
this instant entered the gate at the end of the long elm walk. I hasten to meet
her as if by accident.
Farewel.
More her's than my own or yours.
G.S.
Ah! my poor godfather! thy plans are now effectually
crushed indeed.
LETTER, IV.
SIR CHARLES CONWAY,
TO GEORGE
STANLEY, ESQ.
Hawthorn Grove, Feb. 14th.
HITHERTO I have set you
down as a strange kind of a wild fellow with some sobriety; but your last
letter puts sobriety out of the question and leaves me to conclude you
absolutely mad. Have I not, think you, vexation enough from that too volatile
yet too charming sister of yours? Add not, my dear George, to my anxiety; for
anxious I must be on every occasion which threatens the disturbance of your
family; and that the subject of your last, if you are really serious in what
you write, is of that tendency, is too evident from the postscript. But I am
willing to believe the whole to be an effusion of your wild immagination;
founded, perhaps, upon the slight circumstance of your having accidentally seen
a pretty girl.
My spirits are extremely low at this time. I have been
giving the finishing directions to the improvements at the bottom of my garden
which were began with the sole view of rendering it agreeable to your sister's
taste, and the idea that she, probably, will never see it, has cast a gloom
over my mind which I cannot shake off.
I mean to write to her by the servant who is to carry
this. Possibly her answer, if she will deign to give one, will fix my doom. If it’s
contrary to my wishes—say what you will, George—Hawthorn Grove shall not long
be my residence; for I cannot, with any degree of patience, think of remaining
so near my dearest friend, as I trust you ever will continue under all
circumstances, and be debarred an intercourse; and as to going to Alverston—it
would be next to an impossibility. I will, therefore, at least, for a time,
remove from a spot that I once thought was one of the most beautiful situations
in the kingdom, and will visit the Eastern Coast, which I have often had a wish
to see. Never again tell me of my being a philosopher; I find the conquest of
myself much more difficult than I imagined it would have been. While your sister’s heart was the expected reward, the task was
pleasant; but now my hope is clouded, the natural warmth of my temper gets the
lead, and I am half as impetuous as you are. I would, if I could, write with a
smile, but I cannot. It will not continue a moment. Am I, I often ask myself,
the gay, the high-spirited fellow who used to dispute the palm in all
companies, and generally carried it, too, against every opposer but yourself?
and shall I, at twenty-four, turn a mope—a melancholy recluse, because one
woman frowns! no; I pronounce with an emphasis, I will not thus give way; and
then determine to exert a power which I still cannot but think we shall find
ourselves to be endued with, if we will but resolutely endeavour for victory. I
then, for some time, go on calmly, and fancy I shall be successful; but one
trick, one manoeuvre of Emma Stanley’s, entirely destroys all ideas of my
fancied wisdom, and I, at once, fall from the imaginary height I had gained. We
all I suppose, are ready to believe there is no task so hard to perform as that
which is allotted to ourselves; and this, I confess, is my opinion with regard
to your sister. Were she not exactly the woman she is, I think I could shut my
heart against her. But a creature so perfect in all other respects—face and
form so faultless—understanding so exalted—disposition so sweet, till of late,
and that still unaltered to all but me—how, my friend, can I drive such a woman
from my wishes! I even seem unjust when I accuse her, and, sometimes, endeavour
to seek for faults in myself, respecting my conduct to her, that she may be
acquitted. What scenes of domestic felicity have I thought were almost at hand!
How fondly have I believed that she was to be the means of perfecting a
reformation which I ardently wish to have effected! My future, as well as my
present happiness, seemed to have been delegated to her. But I must fly from
the subject. This sudden destruction of my best hopes leaves such a horrid
vacuity in my soul, that I can scarce tell to what to turn my thoughts. Perhaps
when all is absolutely at an end—when she shall have given her final
determination, which I now mean to press for—I may, in time, arrive to a sullen
kind of negative-happiness, which will very likely, take the name of
tranquillity: to which name, however, it will have but small pretensions, till
I can drop all thoughts of sublunary bliss, and entirely look to a coming
world: for while earthly felicity holds any place in my idea, she will always
present herself to me in the form of Emma Stanley.
You desire me to be more explicit upon this head and to
give you particulars. What can I say? of what can I accuse her? the
retrospection, necessary to comply with your injunction, is painful, and will
not furnish any thing conclusive. In all my late visits to Alverston Park, her
looks and her words have been at variance; the latter having expressed the most
perplexing indifference, while the former have led me to hope her heart
silently pleaded in my favor.
At first, I did not dare to enquire pressingly into the
cause; but the last time I went, the change was too great to allow of my being
silent, with any propriety, after the flattering reception she had so lately
given my professions of affection. In reply to my entreaties to know the cause
of this distressing alteration, she, assuming the utmost gaiety of manner,
begged me not to be disturbed at such a trifle as her good and bad humours;
that it was a matter of but small consequence in general, and no concern of
mine. I could not then say any more, as you that instant interrupted us. Since
my return I have written to her thrice, but have only received one answer; and
that was to my last; the purport of it is similar to her reply in the
park-avenue.
Hitherto, I have been unwilling to give you even this
explanation, because I flattered myself with its being only the effect of that
vivacity which, in my eyes, always added to her charms; and though I did not
approve of her late exertion of it, I endeavoured to excuse her. When I began
to apprehend there was too much of reality in her apparent indifference, I had
another motive for my being rather silent on the subject. Sure of your
attachment to my interest, I was afraid of your exerting your influence in my
favor; on a double account afraid of it; for first,
I love her too sincerely to endure the thought of occasioning her any
irksome solicitation; and secondly, that love is too delicate to consent to owe the
possession of even, your sister, to any one but herself.
From the hitherto unlimited confidence between you, it is
probable, as I shall press for an explanation, that she may consult you upon
her answer. Now I do request—nay I insist upon
it—that you leave her entirely to her own determination; for if I ever,
hereafter, should have reason to suppose that her sentiments were biased by
your prejudice in my favor, I should be miserable in having been gifted with
her hand. Her heart is the prize to which I aspire: to be satisfied with less,
would be to be unworthy of her. It would but ill suit with the delicacy of my
affection, or, allow me to say, with the dignity of my sentiments respecting
her, to receive her consent, were she to give it with the least reluctance; for
what would that be doing but endeavouring to secure my own happiness at the
expence of her’s? which, after all, it would be impossible to do,
as mine can only be perfected when her’s is compleat. I, therefore, should accept her with reluctance, even from herself, could
I know that, reason, more than affection, prompted her compliance; much less
could I endure to believe it the effect of persuasion from any other. You, I am
convinced, will not think me over
nice in these particulars, because they are such we have always exactly agreed
in: to the rectitude of which I now request you minutely to attend, lest, on
the present occasion, your well-known affection to both your sister and myself,
should make your wish for our union lessen the force of those sentiments which
must ever oppose it, but upon the terms of mutual affection.
The substance of your frenzical letter, I wish to pass
slightly over; being willing to believe it was not written with any sober
meaning. Yet you are so precipitant, that I tremble at the possibility of your
being seriously engaged in some wild pursuit.
Do, my dear George, do be upon your guard. If you cannot
bend your heart to oblige the best father and mother in the universe, do not
let it take a bias so diametrically opposite to their wishes as some
expressions in your half-frantic scribble, leads me to apprehend your are in
danger of doing.
“Your eyes are all that with your views”—ah
George! let me ask—what are
your views? answer candidly, and if they are wrong ones, upon which point your
own heart will soon decide, renounce them instantly.
If any subject can draw my thoughts from that which, so
greatly pains them, it must be one in which you are concerned. But till I know
whether you are in jest, or in too much earnest, will forbear any further
expostulations.
Farewel,
CHARLES
CONWAY.
LETTER, V.
SIR CHARLES CONWAY,
TO MISS STANLEY.
Hawthorn Grove, Feb. 14th.
1789.
I AM now, madam, set down
with a determination to avoid, if possible, the incoherence with which I am
apprehensive you were offended in my last. How I shall be able to carry that
determination into effect, I know not; for the subject is, and I fear ever will
be, too near my heart to permit my treating it with that calmness—more properly
termed indifference—which you seem to expect, and of which, it must be
confessed, you set me so striking an example. Pardon me: I do not mean to
offend you; but my soul is so filled with vexation, that my utmost efforts are
insufficient to suppress, entirely, the appearance of it.
It is now, Miss Stanley, ten years since I was first
introduced into your family, in the advantageous light of your brother’s most favored friend. I was then fourteen; he only one year older; and
I believe a more firm friendship was never cemented between two boys of that
age. You were a lovely girl of eleven, and, young as I was, I found my
attachment to the brother, increase with my knowledge of the sister; though I
was not sensible of the occasion of the influence. When you were permitted to
join in the amusements of the evening, how, entirely were all my faculties
absorbed! And how sedulous I was to place myself near you! “now Emma is here”,
would your brother, sometimes, exclaim, “Charles Conway will not speak to me!”
and I am still sensible of the sudden glow, which, on such occasions, suffused
my cheeks; while Sir Edward and Lady Stanley, upon whom I have turned an almost
conscious eye, have smiled upon each other at the innocent attachment. What
exquisite felicity was I then surrounded with! how pure, how unmixed were my
delights! but I must fly from the retrospection of these truely blissful
scenes; yet I could wish to draw them to your recollection. You need not be afraid of their effect.
When Mr. Stanley and I had finished our studies and our
travels, and the death of my father and uncle enabled me to purchase this spot
(which, beautiful in itself, as it is generally said to be, derived its
greatest beauty, in my eye, from its situation with respect to Alverston Park)
and when your brother had prevailed upon you to attend to the approbation with
which Sir Edward and Lady Stanley honored my proposals, I thought my happiness
drawing near to perfection: and in this blest hope, the idea every day
gathering strength from that amiable; that delicate, yet frank mode of conduct
which ever distinguished you, have I lived, uninterrupted, for the last sixteen
months; the very last, only excepted. Shall I draw
the alternative! shall I endeavour to paint the confusion—the distress—the
almost distraction—which reigns within me at this unexpected—this most
unaccountable of all changes! I cannot. It is impossible. What I endure is not
to be expressed. My opinion unchanged; my affection unabated; my wishes,
consequently, as ardent as ever—my hopes almost
annihilated!!! Think
not, madam, that I study for a language to affect you. I do not. If I express
myself with any force, it is because my heart conveys its feelings to my pen.
But I will be as concise as possible.
What, Miss Stanley, is the occasion of this alteration? What—yet I
tremble to ask it—is to be my destiny? let me intreat a candid, and an
immediate reply. Shorten the torments of this suspence, though you thereby fix
my despair. I would not live such another month as the last, for any reward
independent of yourself. Tell me why I have forfeited the confidence I once
dared to think myself secure of for ever. Tell me—in short, tell me what I am
to be in future; whether ranked amongst those whose existence is wretchedness;
or numbered with the happiest of human beings.
I dare not use the language of former days, lest it
should now offend you: else would I conclude with saying, that I am my dearest
Emma's ever faithful and affectionate
CHARLES
CONWAY.
LETTER, VI.
MR. STANLEY, TO SIR
CHARLES CONWAY.
Alverston, Feb. 16th.
CHARLES! my dear Charles!
I have not been able to obey your injunctions. Your letter transported me into
a fury; and I am still in a rage. What the plague can ail
this girl! I never saw such a metamorphosis in my life. My father and mother,
in whose presence I read your letter, are distressed beyond conception; for, as
you may suppose, I was too much affected to conceal the cause from them. After
a little consultation, it was proposed to send to my sister to go down; but my
mother, who has tenderness and delicacy always alive, said she would go up to
her, first, by herself; which she did, leaving my father and me together. We
sat, I believe, a quarter of an hour, endeavouring to conjecture what could
have occasioned this change: for that her heart was undisguisedly yours—in short—that
she loved you with the most genuine affection, is as I have before said,
incontrovertible, if there is one atom of truth in one individual of that
vexing; tormenting; fascinating, sex.
By my soul I am out of humour with all of the feminine
gender, and am almost angry with even my mother, good as she is, because she is
a woman. But my heart reproaches me. Admirable! charming!
unequalled Lady Stanley! forgive a son, who can one moment forget the
excellencies of such a parent. My whole heart is vexed; and in the same breath,
I love, hate, admire, despise, my sister. When my mother returned, her fine
countenance was more overclouded than I ever remember to have seen it before.
My father looked alarmed, but tenderly enquired the result of her visit. I sat aghast
with impatience while she related it, which she did in the following words.
“I am pained, my dear Sir Edward, to be under the
necessity of repeating to you and George the conversation which has passed
above stairs, because I am apprehensive it will add to the perplexity which you
both are, already, under.” My father spoke not but with his eyes. I, likewise,
sat mute, with enquiring looks; my mother hesitated, and at length went on.
“Some very singular alteration has taken place in the mind of our dear Emma.
She is, I am sure, greatly distressed, though she endeavours to appear as calm
as possible. All that I can get from her, is, a disinclination, which she
cannot surmount, to change her state; and that with her present sentiments,
which she believes will never alter, it would be a crime to think of being the
wife of any man breathing.” Astonishing! amazing! I exclaimed, scarce knowing
what I said. “Unaccountable, indeed” said my father, “but how long—” “I asked
her,” interrupted my mother, “when it was that her sentiments first took such a
turn, at which she blushed and said it had been coming on some time; and
repeated that she believed it would continue through life. My mother said, she
then expostulated with her in very close terms, and used the strongest
arguments she could collect to convince her of the impropriety and injustice of her present conduct, and added that she ought
not to have taken it upon herself to have given dismission to a man of such
consequence as Sir Charles Conway, without, at least, consulting
Sir Edward and herself.
Here my mother put her handkerchief to her eyes and we
again continued silent, till, at length, my father asked what followed. “The
dear girl,” replied my mother, “distressed me beyond imagination; she threw her
arms round my neck and rested her cheek upon my bosom; begged me not to think
she had one undutiful idea; that she did not intend to proceed so far as to dismiss Sir Charles, but only to give him room, by her
manner, to expect what must follow;
and this she did from a principle not ungenerous, as she believed he was too
earnest in his wish for an alliance with this family, to be told of the
impossibility of its ever taking place, without concern.” My mother then re-urged
all that prudence and wisdom could dictate, but without the wished-for effect.
What can be done! so
faultless, I may almost say, hitherto! so obliging, so very—but what
avails it to enumerate her past
perfections! she is now perverse, unpersuadable, and totally unlike that sister
of whom I used to be so proud as well as truly fond.
I will not, Charles, plague you with any more
particulars. The result was, for upon what else could we determine, that she
must previously endeavour to reason with herself upon all which had been laid
before her, and, if possible, oblige us by a compliance with our very earnest
wishes; but that if she could not satisfy herself in so doing, she must be left at
liberty, so important is the matter, to pursue the dictates of her own
conscience.
The enclosed letter, which I have sealed in a blank
cover, that you might not be so likely to open it till you had perused this, as
you would have been, had you seen upon it her direction, will speak, I doubt,
too plainly her determination.
My dear Charles, farewel. I mean to see you, in a day or
two, at Hawthorn Grove. My sister will set out to-morrow for Lady Davison’s; from whence she will go into Oxfordshire, upon a visit to Miss Lawson.
This, my father, fond as he is of her, has insisted upon
on your account; and my mother has complied from similar considerations. As to myself—I hardly care where she goes. I am excessively out
of humour with her, and shall not attend her to Lady Davison’s; for our being much together, at this juncture,
will, probably, occasion our first quarrel; indeed, my friend, the best wishes
of my heart are yours.
My own affairs, pressing as they are, are, at times, almost erased from
my memory by the lively concern I am under on your account. However, as I know
you are not without anxiety upon the subject of my last, which, foolishly
flighty as I then was in my expressions, has too solid a foundation, I will,
to-morrow, if I can, give you the particulars; for upon recollection, I cannot
leave Alverston till after next Thursday, on account of the promise the two
Beauchamps gave us of staying here one night on their way to Liverpool; which
place they must reach, if possible, on Friday evening; consequently, I expect
they will be here Wednesday and Thursday. But for this confounded affair, I would
not have excused your giving them the meeting; as it is, though Emma will be
set off, it will not, I know, be pleasant for you to come; therefore I shall
make some apology for you.
Cordially
yours,
GEORGE
STANLEY.
LETTER, VII.
MISS STANLEY, TO
SIR CHARLES CONWAY.
Enclosed
in the preceding.
Alverston Park, Feb. 16th.
1789.
SIR.
AS I have been accustomed
to give some credit to your professions of regard, I have endeavored to defer speaking
decisively till I had, in some measure, led you to expect what my decision
would be. Perhaps my reasons for this measure were founded in vanity. Be that
as it may, delay is no longer practicable. I am pressed on all sides, and must
give you my final answer, which is
that I never can; never ought to be yours. Ask me not for an explanation. Ask, rather—But ask nothing. Perhaps I wish to obliterate the
remembrance of former scenes as much as you do. Remonstrance, let me add, will
be in vain; for which reason it is that I venture to request your interest with
my brother, to prevent my being distressed by unavailing arguments to alter
this my firm determination. I wish you happy. I wish you very
happy. May the rectitude of your heart, lead you to oblige with your hand, a
woman who will receive it with gratitude.
EMMA
STANLEY.
LETTER, VIII.
Miss
STANLEY, TO Miss CHARLOTTE LAWSON.
Alverston
Park, Monday Night, Feb. 16th. 1789.
IT is done, my dear
Charlotte! the task is over! but what the effect will be, I know not. My
spirits are lost; my happiness entirely destroyed. My health, surely, must give
way: it can never, I think, stem such a torrent of distress. Oh Charlotte! why
did Sir Charles Conway appear to be so exactly formed to my wishes! or why did
I not know this one great failing before I so entirely
gave up my heart to him! the contest which I have had with my father, mother,
and brother, was even greater than I expected it would be. My resolution, when
they so warmly pressed for the reason of my conduct, was nearly giving way, and
it was with the utmost difficulty that I kept the sacred promise I had made of
not divulging the cause to any one but you, whose secrecy I engaged for. My inward conflict was so violent that it almost overpowered my
senses.
When I came to myself, I was frightened at the danger I
had been in of betraying the fatal secret; for had I not
promised, I would have endured almost the greatest tortures ere it should have
been divulged. The idea of the additional distress, never to be remedied, with
which it must, have overwhelmed Sir Charles, was more than I could support.
Charlotte—faulty as he is, I love him better than I love myself, and feel a
pleasure in having suffered in the opinion of my dear friends here, to save him
from being lessened in their affection or esteem. Is this, I sometimes ask myself,
strictly right? If he is culpable, ought he not to be
let to sink in their opinion? and if he was not culpable, I should not have
occasion to run the hazard of their displeasure on his account. These
soliloquizing reasonings I should, perhaps, be unable to answer, but the
recollection of my promise comes
to my aid, and I find that I could not have acted otherwise than as I have
done, without being criminal.
With regard to Sir Charles himself, I have surely obeyed
the dictates of—what?—of conscience, I hope: and yet I do not find that inward
satisfaction resulting from what I have done which I expected; and which a
perfect obedience to conscience generally brings with it. Something seems
wrong; yet I know not what. Reason, applauds me, and commends the sacrifice;
but a secret something lurks at the bottom, as if in
opposition. Probably it is compassion; or, Charlotte, more
probably a much stronger sentiment than pity can raise. It surely must be so:
for that small, still, voice, which, when carefully and cautiously attended to,
will lighten the soul in darkness, cannot oppose the dictates of true reason
and equity. Were there a possibility of my having been deceived, I should be
ready enough to suspect the imposition. But the evidence is too, too strong to
admit a ray of doubt. Have I not seen the poor deluded, injured Matilda! have I
not seen her in an agony of distress; while (the relief of tears being denied)
grief, shame, and affection struggled in her countenance! and, oh Charlotte!
have I not seen the poor orphan-infant, as it may justly be termed, setting on its mothers knee, and turning its
little eyes upon first one and then another, as if to ask for pity for her! The
scene still hangs before my view. My heart is still sensible of the
excruciating pain which then ran through it.
She called the baby Charles—Charles
Conway Charlotte, and I transiently thought I observed some little
affinity in feature. But I cannot dwell upon the recollection. Let me strike
it, if possible, for ever from my idea.
Its over, never to return, and my heart fortified against
every other endeavour to prepossess it. I told my dear mother, and I told her
true, that with my present sentiments, it would be a crime to think of being
the wife of any man breathing. And would it not? can I ever think of any other as I ought to think of a husband? ah! no; no! and
I must, never again, think of him.
Charlotte—justice forbids it—I must never again think of Sir Charles Conway!!!
That he loved me my dear I cannot ever doubt. Then—why!—why! But I must
instantly quit this subject, and with it, for a short time, my pen.
To morrow I am to set off for Lady Davison’s. If you have no engagement in view, which your last leads me to hope
you have not, I have permission to visit Woodstock. The reason of this sudden
intention it is not difficult to guess.
Your reply, my dearest girl, will, probably, find me at
Lady Davison's; direct for me at her house, Litchfield.
Your sister will not now complain of my being too
volatile. I am no longer the high-spirited girl who will distract her with “incessant chearfulness.” It was an odd expression my dear;
but what can be expected from so unhappy a disposition as Miss Rachel's always
was, more than ill-natured criticism!
Present to her, however, my respects: she is your sister.
To Mrs. Lawson and Mrs. Eleanor, remember me still more affectionately. I hope
they will consent to be troubled with me a few weeks. My father, mother, and
brother desire their affectionate compliments may be duly distributed. They
expect me to be more particular than I have now spirits to be; therefore must
leave it to my dearest friend to make the distribution with propriety and
warmth.
I have just received a letter from Mrs. Digby. It is
meant, I believe, to be a consolitary one; The style is whimsically solemn. She
professes to be sorry for being the occasion of the rupture between Sir Charles
and me, which she hears is likely to be the effect of the intelligence I gained
by means of her unhappy mistake; Then inconsistently congratulates herself on
being the cause, though as she industriously repeats, the involuntary one, of
saving me from—a wretch—she thinks proper to stile him—who is so utterly unworthy
of me; adding a multiplicity of highly-strained encomiums, and finishing with
extraordinary professions of affection: she officiously brings in a repetition
of her pity for the poor pineing lost Matilda, as she calls Miss Barlowe.
I cannot say that I ever very
greatly liked Mrs. Digby, but I now like her so much less than I used to do,
that I am afraid I am unjust enough to be displeased with her, because she
happened to be the means of my, perhaps, ever having any
knowledge of what, doubtless, I ought to know. Be that as it may, I never can
rank her amongst my favorites; admired as, it seems, she is, by the world in
general. She has, to be sure, a handsome face; fine form, and a good
understanding; but there is an enquiring, artful turn in her conversation,
which displeases me. Descended from a noble family, and married into one still
more distinguished; left a widow at twenty three, with the sole command of
immence wealth—no wonder she is admired, followed and courted: but, in my
opinion, her wit seems pertness, and her good-nature, affected. I was told, the
other day, that she was determined to have the man of her heart, though it cost
her two thirds of her fortune. Who, I wonder, is this happy man! and what
circumstances can he be under, that she needs think of buying him at such a
price!
But Charlotte! I am ashamed of myself. What has Mrs.
Digby done to draw thus upon herself my severity? Pity, me my beloved friend;
and let your pity excuse me. My whole soul is vexed. I write, because I dare
not think; and Mrs. Digby, is, in some measure, relative to the only subject
upon which I can employ my pen. But the night is far advanced, and as this must
go early in the morning, I will now conclude it. Perhaps I may get a little
rest, for I seem very heavy.
May that Great Power, which only can soften my sorrows
and render them supportable, assist my weakness. In this is placed my only
hope; and, at times, a gleam seems to break through the cloud, and promise
future brightness.
Ever,
my dear Charlotte,
your
affectionate
EMMA STANLEY.
LETTER, IX.
COLONEL GREVILLE TO
THE HONOURABLE
MRS. DIGBY.
London, Feb. 16th. 1789.
My dear confederate.
IT is not more than two
hours since I landed; nor above two minutes since I was set down in Pall-Mall.
My first business is to enquire the success of your manoeuvrings, during my
absence, which nothing but absolute necessity could have occasioned, at the
juncture at which I was commanded abroad. My only consolation was, that I left my
most pressing affairs in the hands of one whose abilities were equal to any
undertaking, and whose concern in their succeeding, was as great as my own; for
I think, my lovely cousin, your penchant
for Sir Charles Conway, is not a whit inferior to mine for the fair Emma.
Hasten, I beseech you, an account of particulars. Be as
minute as possible, that I may know all my cues. I would bowl down to
Harborough, could my absence from court be dispensed with: but as I am liable
to be called upon every hour, I cannot, till after the second of next month,
leave London. This will reach you in the morning about eleven o’clock.
Permit my requesting you to write by the return of the mail, and I shall then
have the honor to receive the consecreted paper on the morning following.
You will, I know, excuse my thus hurrying you, when you
recollect that cupid and plutus are the masters under whom I serve; and they
are furious drivers. Venus is my queen; and to you, her own express image, she
has, of late, delegated her share of sovereignty over my destiny; which is, I
think a very gallant conclusion from cousin to cousin; especially when I add
that I am, my dear madam, your most affectionate and most devoted slave,
ARCHIBALD
GREVILLE.
I shall take care
to avoid Miss Fenton, till you tell me how far she is acquainted with the
extent of our plan; for as the subject will unavoidably occur in my first
interview with her, I shall wish to be guarded in my questions and replies.
LETTER, X.
MRS. DIGBY, TO
COLONEL GREVILLE.
Harborough, Feb. 17th.
“COURAGE my noble
Colonel!” The day will be our own. I have been successful beyond my most
sanguine expectations. The lovers will, doubtless, soon be separated: never, I
hope, to meet again, till even destiny cannot unite them. Proud of my own
adroitness, I am equally as impatient as you are, till you know all my manoeuvrings, as you rightly term them. Where shall I begin?
To which page of the book shall I first turn? I am glad that your absence from
the Kingdom has been necessary during this great period; for now, the glory of
the Campaign belongs solely to me.
To me the great Arabella Digby, of Harborough, widow!!!