Evelina, Or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World

ETTER LXXX.

EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Oct. 11th.

YESTERDAY morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Lord Orville went
to the
Hot Wells, to wait upon my father with my double petition.

Mrs. Beaumont then, in general terms, proposed a walk in the
garden. Mrs.
Selwyn said she had letters to write; but Lady Louisa rose to
accompany Mrs. Beaumont.

I had had some reason to imagine, from the notice with which her
Ladyship had
honoured me during breakfast, that her brother had acquainted her with
my present situation: and her behaviour now confirmed my conjectures:
for, when I would have gone up stairs, instead of suffering me,
as usual, to pass disregarded, she called after me with an affected
surprise, "Miss Anville, don't you walk with us?"

There seemed something so little-minded in this sudden change
of conduct,
that, from an involuntary motion of contempt, I thanked her with a
coldness like her own, and declined her offer. Yet, observing that
she blushed extremely at my refusal, and recollecting she was sister
to Lord Orville, my indignation subsided; and, upon Mrs. Beaumont
repeating the invitation, I accepted it.

Our walk proved extremely dull: Mrs. Beaumont, who never says much,
was more
silent than usual; Lady Louisa strove in vain to lay aside the
restraint and distance she has hitherto preserved; and, as to me, I
was too conscious of the circumstances to which I owed their attention,
to feel either pride or pleasure from receiving it.

Lord Orville was not long absent: he joined us in the garden with
a look of
gaiety and good humour that revived us all. "You are just the party,"
said he, "I wished to see together. Will you, Madam (taking my hand),
allow me the honour of introducing you, by your real name, to two of
my nearest relations? Mrs. Beaumont, give me leave to present to
you the daughter of Sir John Belmont, a young lady who, I am sure,
must long since have engaged your esteem and admiration, though you
were a stranger to her birth."

"My Lord," said Mrs. Beaumont, graciously saluting me, "the young
lady's rank
in life, your Lordship's recommendation, or her own merit, would, any
one of them, have been sufficient to have entitled her to my regard;
and I hope she has always met with that respect in my house which is
so much her due; though, had I been sooner made acquainted with her
family, I should doubtless have better known how to have secured it."

"Miss Belmont," said Lord Orville, "can receive no lustre from family,
whatever she may give to it. Louisa, you will, I am sure, be happy to
make yourself an interest in the friendship of Miss Belmont, whom I
hope shortly (kissing my hand, and joining it with her Ladyship's)
to have the happiness of presenting to you by yet another name,
and by the most endearing of all titles."

I believe it would be difficult to say whose cheeks were, at that
moment, of
the deepest dye, Lady Louisa's or my own; for the conscious pride
with which she has hitherto slighted me, gave to her an embarrassment
which equalled the confusion that an introduction so unexpected
gave to me. She saluted me, however; and, with a faint smile said,
"I shall esteem myself very happy to profit by the honour of Miss
Belmont's acquaintance."

I only courtsied, and we walked on; but it was evident, from the
little
surprise they expressed, that they had been already informed of the
state of the affair.

We were soon after joined by more company: and Lord Orville then,
in a low
voice, took an opportunity to tell me the success of his visit. In the
first place, Thursday was agreed to; and, in the second, my father,
he said, was much concerned to hear of my uneasiness; sent me his
blessing; and complied with my request of seeing him, with the same
readiness he should agree to any other I could make. Lord Orville,
therefore, settled that I should wait upon him in the evening, and,
at his particular request, unaccompanied by Mrs. Selwyn.

This kind message, and the prospect of so soon seeing him, gave
me sensations
of mixed pleasure and pain, which wholly occupied my mind till the
time of my going to the Hot Wells.

Mrs. Beaumont lent me her chariot, and Lord Orville absolutely
insisted upon
attending me. "If you go alone," said he, "Mrs. Selwyn will certainly
be offended; but if you allow me to conduct you, though she may give
the freer scope to her raillery, she cannot possibly be affronted:
and we had much better suffer her laughter, than provoke her satire."

Indeed, I must own, I had no reason to regret being so accompanied;
for his
conversation supported my spirits from drooping, and made the ride
seem so short, that we actually stopped at my father's door, before
I knew we had proceeded ten yards.

He handed me from the carriage, and conducted me to the parlour,
at the door
of which I was met by Mr. Macartney. "Ah, my dear brother," cried I,
"how happy am I to see you here!"

He bowed, and thanked me. Lord Orville, then, holding out his hand,
said,
"Mr. Macartney, I hope we shall be better acquainted; I promise myself
much pleasure from cultivating your friendship."

"Your Lordship does me but too much honour," answered Mr. Macartney.

"But where," cried I, "is my sister? for so I must already call,
and always
consider her:-I am afraid she avoids me;-you must endeavour, my
dear brother, to prepossess her in my favour, and reconcile her to
owning me."

"Oh, Madam," cried he, "you are all goodness and benevolence! but
at present
I hope you will excuse her, for I fear she has hardly fortitude
sufficient to see you: in a short time perhaps-"

"In a very short time, then," said Lord Orville, "I hope you will
yourself
introduce her, and that we shall have the pleasure of wishing you both
joy:-allow me, my Evelina, to say we, and permit me, in your name,
as well as my own, to entreat that the first guests we shall have
the happiness of receiving may be Mr. and Mrs. Macartney."

A servant then came to beg I would walk up stairs.

I besought Lord Orville to accompany me; but he feared the displeasure
of Sir
John, who had desired to see me alone. He led me, however, to the
foot of the stairs, and made the kindest efforts to give me courage:
but indeed he did not succeed; for the interview appeared to me in
all its terrors, and left me no feeling but apprehension.

The moment I reached the landing-place, the drawing-room door was
opened: and
my father, with a voice of kindness, called out, "My child, is it you?"

"Yes, Sir," cried I, springing forward, and kneeling at his feet,
"it is your
child, if you will own her!"

He knelt by my side, and, folding me in his arms, "Own thee,"
repeated he,
"yes, my poor girl, and Heaven knows with what bitter
contrition!" Then, raising both himself and me, he brought me into the
drawing-room, shut the door, and took me to the window; where, looking
at me with great earnestness, "Poor unhappy Caroline!" cried he; and,
to my inexpressible concern, he burst into tears. Need I tell you,
my dear Sir, how mine flowed at the sight?

I would again have embraced his knees; but, hurrying from me, he flung
himself upon a sofa, and, leaning his face on his arms, seemed for
some time absorbed in bitterness of grief.

I ventured not to interrupt a sorrow I so much respected; but
waited in
silence, and at a distance, till he recovered from its violence. But
then it seemed in a moment to give way to a kind of frantic fury;
for starting suddenly, with a sternness which at once surprised and
frightened me, "Child," cried he, "hast thou yet sufficiently humbled
thy father?-if thou hast, be contented with this proof of my weakness,
and no longer force thyself into my presence!"

Thunderstruck by a command so unexpected, I stood still and
speechless, and
doubted whether my own ears did not deceive me.

"Oh go, go!" cried he, passionately; "in pity-in compassion,-if
thou valuest my senses, leave me,-and for ever!"

"I will, I will," cried I, greatly terrified; and I moved hastily
towards the
door: yet, stopping when I reached it, and, almost involuntarily,
dropping on my knees, "Vouchsafe," cried I, "Oh, Sir, vouchsafe
but once to bless your daughter, and her sight shall never more
offend you!"

"Alas," cried he, in a softened voice, "I am not worthy to bless
thee!-I am
not worthy to call thee daughter!-I am not worthy that the fair
light of Heaven should visit my eyes!-Oh God! that I could but call
back the time ere thou wast born,-or else bury its remembrance in
eternal oblivion!"

"Would to Heaven," cried I, "that the sight of me were less terrible
to you!
that, instead of irritating, I could soothe your sorrows!-Oh Sir, how
thankfully would I then prove my duty, even at the hazard of my life!"

"Are you so kind?" cried he, gently; "come hither, child;-rise,
Evelina:-Alas, it is for me to kneel,-not you;-and I would kneel,-I
would crawl upon the earth,-I would kiss the dust,-could I, by such
submission, obtain the forgiveness of the representative of the most
injured of women!"

"Oh, Sir," exclaimed I, "that you could but read my heart!-that you
could but
see the filial tenderness and concern with which it overflows!-you
would not then talk thus,-you would not then banish me your presence,
and exclude me from your affection!"

"Good God," cried he, "is it then possible that you do not hate
me?-Can the
child of the wronged Caroline look at,-and not execrate me? Wast thou
not born to abhor, and bred to curse me? Did not thy mother bequeath
thee her blessing on condition that thou should'st detest and avoid
me ?"

"Oh no, no, no!" cried I; "think not so unkindly of her, nor so
hardly of
me." I then took from my pocketbook her last letter; and, pressing
it to my lips, with a trembling hand, and still upon my knees, I held
it out to him.

Hastily snatching it from me, "Great Heaven!" cried he, "'tis her
writing-Whence comes this?-who gave it you-why had I it not sooner?"

I made no answer; his vehemence intimidated me, and I ventured not
to move
from the suppliant posture in which I had put myself.

He went from me to the window, where his eyes were for some time
rivetted
upon the direction of the letter, though his hand shook so violently
he could hardly hold it. Then, bringing it to me, "Open it,"-cried
he,-"for I cannot!"

I had myself hardly strength to obey him: but when I had, he took
it back,
and walked hastily up and down the room, as if dreading to read it. At
length, turning to me, "Do you know," cried he, "its contents?"

"No, Sir," answered I, "it has never been unsealed."

He then again went to the window, and began reading. Having hastily
run it
over, he cast up his eyes with a look of desperation; the letter fell
from his hand, and he exclaimed, "Yes! thou art sainted!-thou art
blessed!-and I am cursed for ever!" He continued some time fixed in
this melancholy position; after which, casting himself with violence
upon the ground, "Oh wretch," cried he, "unworthy life and light,
in what dungeon canst thou hide thy head?"

I could restrain myself no longer; I rose and went to him; I did
not dare
speak; but, with pity and concern unutterable, I wept and hung
over him.

Soon after, starting up, he again seized the letter, exclaiming,
"Acknowledge
thee, Caroline!-yes, with my heart's best blood would I acknowledge
thee!-Oh that thou could'st witness the agony of my soul!-Ten thousand
daggers could not have wounded me like this letter!"

Then, after again reading it, "Evelina," he cried, "she charges me
to receive
thee;-wilt thou, in obedience to her will, own for thy father the
destroyer of thy mother?"

What a dreadful question!-I shuddered, but could not speak.

"To clear her fame, and receive her child," continued he, looking
stedfastly
at the letter, "are the conditions upon which she leaves me her
forgiveness: her fame I have already cleared;-and Oh, how willingly
would I take her child to my bosom, fold her to my heart,-call upon
her to mitigate my anguish, and pour the balm of comfort on my wounds,
were I not conscious I deserve not to receive it, and that all my
affliction is the result of my own guilt!"

It was in vain I attempted to speak; horror and grief took from me
all power
of utterance.

He then read aloud from the letter, "Look not like thy unfortunate
mother!"
"Sweet soul, with what bitterness of spirit hast thou written!-Come
hither, Evelina: Gracious Heaven! (looking earnestly at me) never
was likeness more striking!-the eyes-the face-the form-Oh, my child,
my child!" Imagine, Sir,-for I can never describe my feelings, when
I saw him sink upon his knees before me! "Oh, dear resemblance of
thy murdered mother!-Oh, all that remains of the most injured of
women! behold thy father at thy feet!-bending thus lowly to implore
you would not hate him.-Oh, then, thou representative of my departed
wife, speak to me in her name, and say that the remorse which tears
my soul tortures me not in vain!"

"Oh, rise, rise, my beloved father," cried I, attempting to assist
him; "I
cannot bear to see you thus; reverse not the law of nature; rise
yourself, and bless your kneeling daughter!"

"May Heaven bless thee, my child!-"cried he, "for I dare not." He
then rose;
and, embracing me most affectionately, added, "I see, I see that thou
art all kindness, softness, and tenderness; I need not have feared
thee, thou art all the fondest father could wish, and I will try to
frame my mind to less painful sensations at thy sight. Perhaps the
time may come, when I may know the comfort of such a daughter;-at
present I am only fit to be alone: dreadful as are my reflections,
they ought merely to torment myself.-Adieu, my child;-be not angry,-I
cannot stay with thee;-Oh, Evelina! thy countenance is a dagger to
my heart!-just so thy mother looked,-just so-"

Tears and sighs seemed to choak him;-and, waving his hand, he would
have left
me;-but, clinging to him, "Oh, Sir," cried I, "will you so soon
abandon me?-am I again an orphan!-Oh, my dear, my long-lost father,
leave me not, I beseech you! take pity on your child, and rob her
not of the parent she so fondly hoped would cherish her!"

"You know not what you ask," cried he; "the emotions which now rend
my soul
are more than my reason can endure; suffer me then, to leave
you;-impute it not to unkindness, but think of me as well as thou
canst. Lord Orville has behaved nobly;-I believe he will make thee
happy." Then, again embracing me, "God bless thee, my dear child,"
cried he, "God bless thee, my Evelina!-endeavour to love,-at least
not to hate me,-and to make me an interest in thy filial bosom,
by thinking of me as thy father."

I could not speak; I kissed his hands on my knees: and then, with
yet more
emotion, he again blessed me, and hurried out of the room,-leaving
me almost drowned in tears.

Oh, Sir, all goodness as you are, how much will you feel for your
Evelina,
during a scene of such agitation! I pray Heaven to accept the tribute
of his remorse, and restore him to tranquillity!

When I was sufficiently composed to return to the parlour, I
found Lord
Orville waiting for me with the utmost anxiety:-and then a new scene of
emotion, though of a far different nature, awaited me; for I learned
by Mr. Macartney, that this noblest of men had insisted the so-long
supposed Miss Belmont should be considered, indeed, as my sister,
and as the co-heiress of my father; though not in law, in justice, he
says, she ought ever to be treated as the daughter of Sir John Belmont.

Oh! Lord Orville!-it shall be the sole study of my happy life,
to express,
better than by words, the sense I have of your exalted benevolence
and greatness of mind!