‘Yes, Miss,’ cried the brother, ‘they do nothing else all day long, when father don’t scold them. But the best fun is, when they’ve got all their dirty things on, and all their hair about their ears, sometimes I send young Brown up stairs to them; and then, there’s such a fuss! – there they hide themselves, and run away, and squeel and squall like any thing mad: and so then I puts the two cats into the room, and I gives ’em a good whipping, and so that sets them a squalling too; so there’s such a noise, and such an uproar! – Lord, you can’t think, Miss, what fun it is!’
This occasioned a fresh quarrel with the sisters; at the end of which, it was, at length, decided that we should go to the shop.
In our way down stairs, Miss Branghton said aloud, ‘I wonder when Mr Smith’s room will be ready.’
‘So do I,’ answered Polly; ‘I’m sure we should not do any harm to it now.’
This hint had not the desired effect; for we were suffered to proceed very quietly.
As we entered the shop, I observed a young man, in deep mourning, leaning against the wall, with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the ground, apparently in profound and melancholy meditation: but the moment he perceived us, he started, and, making a passing bow, very abruptly retired. As I found he was permitted to go quite unnoticed, I could not forbear enquiring who he was.
‘Lord!’ answered Miss Branghton, ‘he’s nothing but a poor Scotch poet.’
‘For my part,’ said Miss Polly, ‘I believe he’s just starved, for I don’t find he has any thing to live upon.’
‘Live upon!’ cried the brother, ‘why he’s a poet, you know, so he may live upon learning.’
‘Aye, and good enough for him too,’ said Miss Branghton, ‘for he’s as proud as he’s poor.’
‘Like enough,’ replied the brother, ‘but, for all that, you won’t find he will live without meat and drink: no, no, catch a Scotchman at that if you can! why, they only come here for what they can get.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Miss Branghton, ‘I wonder Papa ’ll be such a fool as to let him stay in the house, for I dare say he’ll never pay for his lodging.’
‘Why, no more he would if he could get another Lodger: you know the bill’s been put up this fortnight. Miss, if you should hear of a person that wants a room, I assure you it is a very good one, for all it’s up three pair of stairs.’
I answered that as I had no acquaintance in London, I had not any chance of assisting them: but both my compassion and my curiosity were excited for this poor young man; and I asked them some further particulars concerning him.
They then acquainted me, that they had only known him three months. When he first lodged with them, he agreed to board also; but had lately told them, he would eat by himself, though they all believed he had hardly ever tasted a morsel of meat since he left their table. They said, that he had always appeared very low-spirited, but, for the last month, he had been duller than ever, and, all of a sudden, had put himself into mourning, though they knew not for whom, nor for what, but they supposed it was only for convenience, as no person had ever been to see or enquire for him since his residence amongst them: and they were sure he was very poor, as he had not paid for his lodgings the last three weeks: and finally, they concluded he was a poet, or else half-crazy, because they had, at different times, found scraps of poetry in his room.
They then produced some unfinished verses, written on small pieces of paper unconnected, and of a most melancholy cast. Among them was the fragment of an ode, which, at my request, they lent me to copy; and, as you may perhaps like to see it, I will write it now.
O LIFE! thou lingering dream of grief, of pain,
And every ill that Nature can sustain,
Strange, mutable, and wild!
Now flattering with Hope most fair,
Depressing now with fell Despair,
The nurse of Guilt, the slave of Pride,
That, like a wayward child,
Who, to himself a foe,
Sees joy alone in what’s denied,
In what is granted, woe!
O thou poor, feeble, fleeting pow’r,
By Vice seduc’d, by Folly woo’d,
By Mis’ry, Shame, Remorse, pursu’d;
And as thy toilsome steps proceed,
Seeming to Youth the fairest flow’r,
Proving to Age the rankest weed,
A gilded, but a bitter pill,
Of varied, great, and complicated ill!
These lines are harsh, but they indicate an internal wretchedness which, I own, affects me. Surely this young man must be involved in misfortunes of no common nature: but I cannot imagine what can induce him to remain with this unfeeling family, where he is, most unworthily, despised for being poor, and, most illiberally, detested for being a Scotchman. He may, indeed, have motives which he cannot surmount, for submitting to such a situation. Whatever they are, I most heartily pity him, and cannot but wish it were in my power to afford him some relief.
During this conversation, Mr Smith’s foot-boy came to Miss Branghton, and informed her, that his master said she might have the room now when she liked it, for that he was presently going out.
This very genteel message, though it perfectly satisfied the Miss Branghtons, by no means added to my desire of being introduced to this gentleman: and upon their rising, with intention to accept his offer, I begged they would excuse my attending them, and said I would sit with Madame Duval till the tea was ready.
I therefore once more went up two pair of stairs, with young Branghton, who insisted upon accompanying me; and there we remained, till Mr Smith’s foot-boy summoned us to tea, when I followed Madame Duval into the dining-room.
The Miss Branghtons were seated at one window, and Mr Smith was lolling indolently out of the other. They all approached us at our entrance, and Mr Smith, probably to shew he was master of the apartment, most officiously handed me to a great chair, at the upper end of the room, without taking any notice of Madame Duval, till I rose, and offered her my own seat.
Leaving the rest of the company to entertain themselves, he, very abruptly, began to address himself to me, in a style of gallantry equally new and disagreeable to me. It is true, no man can possibly pay me greater compliments, or make more fine speeches, than Sir Clement Willoughby, yet his language, though too flowery, is always that of a gentleman, and his address and manners are so very superior to those of the inhabitants of this house, that to make any comparison between him and Mr Smith would be extremely unjust. This latter seems very desirous of appearing a man of gaiety and spirit; but his vivacity is so lowbred, and his whole behaviour so forward and disagreeable, that I should prefer the company of dullness itself, even as that goddess is described by Pope, to that of this sprightly young man.
He made many apologies that he had not lent his room for our dinner, which, he said, he should certainly have done, had he seen me first; and he assured me, that when I came again, he should be very glad to oblige me.
I told him, and with sincerity, that every part of the house was equally indifferent to me.
‘Why, Ma’am, the truth is, Miss Biddy and Polly take no care of any thing, else, I’m sure, they should be always welcome to my room; for I’m never so happy as in obliging the ladies, – that’s my character, Ma’am; – but, really, the last time they had it, every thing was made so greasy and so nasty, that, upon my word, to a man who wishes to have things a little genteel, it was quite cruel. Now, as to you, Ma’am, it’s quite another thing; for I should not mind if every thing I had was spoilt, for the sake of having the pleasure to oblige you; and, I assure you, Ma’am, it makes me quite happy, that I have a room good enough to receive you.’
This elegant speech was followed by many others, so much in the same style, that to write them would be superfluous; and, as he did not allow me a moment to speak to any other person, the rest of the evening was consumed in a painful attention to this irksome young man, who seemed to intend appearing before me to the ut
most advantage.
Adieu, my dear Sir. I fear you will be sick of reading about this family; yet I must write of them, or not of any, since I mix with no other. Happy shall I be, when I quit them all, and again return to Berry Hill!
Letter Twelve
Evelina in continuation
June 10th
This morning, Mr Smith called, on purpose, he said, to offer me a ticket for the next Hampstead assembly. I thanked him, but desired to be excused accepting it; he would not, however, be denied, nor answered, and, in a manner both vehement and free, pressed and urged his offer till I was wearied to death: but, when he found me resolute, he seemed thunderstruck with amazement, and thought proper to desire I would tell him my reasons.
Obvious as they must, surely, have been to any other person, they were such as I knew not how to repeat to him; and, when he found I hesitated, he said, ‘Indeed, Ma’am, you are too modest; I assure you the ticket is quite at your service, and I shall be very happy to dance with you; so pray don’t be so coy.’
‘Indeed, Sir,’ returned I, ‘you are mistaken; I never supposed you would offer a ticket, without wishing it should be accepted; but it would answer no purpose to mention the reasons which make me decline it, since they cannot possibly be removed.’
This speech seemed very much to mortify him, which I could not be concerned at, as I did not chuse to be treated by him with so much freedom. When he was, at last, convinced that his application to me was ineffectual, he addressed himself to Madame Duval, and begged she would interfere in his favour, offering, at the same time, to procure another ticket for herself.
‘Ma foi, Sir,’ answered she, angrily, ‘you might as well have had the complaisance to ask me before, for, I assure you, I don’t approve of no such rudeness: however, you may keep your tickets to yourself, for we don’t want none of ’em.’
This rebuke almost overset him; he made many apologies, and said that he should certainly have first applied to her, but that he had no notion the young lady would have refused him, and, on the contrary, had concluded that she would have assisted him to persuade Madame Duval herself.
This excuse appeased her; and he pleaded his cause so successfully, that, to my great chagrin, he gained it: and Madame Duval promised that she would go herself, and take me to the Hampstead assembly whenever he pleased.
Mr Smith then, approaching me with an air of triumph, said, ‘Well, Ma’am, now, I think, you can’t possibly keep to your denial.’
I made no answer, and he soon took leave, though not till he had so wonderfully gained the favour of Madame Duval, that she declared, when he was gone, he was the prettiest young man she had seen since she came to England.
As soon as I could find an opportunity, I ventured, in the most humble manner, to entreat Madame Duval would not insist upon my attending her to this ball; and represented to her, as well as I was able, the impropriety of my accepting any present from a young man so entirely unknown to me: but she laughed at my scruples, called me a foolish, ignorant country girl, and said she should make it her business to teach me something of the world.
This ball is to be next week. I am sure it is not more improper for, than unpleasant to me, and I will use every possible endeavour to avoid it. Perhaps I may apply to Miss Branghton for advice, as I believe she will be willing to assist me, from disliking, equally with myself, that I should dance with Mr Smith.
July 11th
O, my dear Sir! I have been shocked to death! – and yet, at the same time, delighted beyond expression, in the hope that I have happily been the instrument of saving a human creature from destruction!
This morning, Madame Duval said she would invite the Branghton family to return our visit to-morrow; and, not chusing to rise herself, – for she generally spends the morning in bed, – she desired me to wait upon them with her message. M. Du Bois, who just then called, insisted upon attending me.
Mr Branghton was in the shop, and told us that his son and daughters were out; but desired me to step up stairs, as he very soon expected them home. This I did, leaving M. Du Bois below. I went into the room where we had dined the day before, and, by a wonderful chance, I happened so to seat myself, that I had a view of the stairs, and yet could not be seen from them.
In about ten minutes time, I saw, passing by the door, with a look perturbed and affrighted, the same young man I mentioned in my last letter. Not heeding, as I suppose, how he went, in turning the corner of the stairs, which are narrow and winding, his foot slipped, and he fell, but almost instantly rising, I plainly perceived the end of a pistol, which started from his pocket, by hitting against the stairs.
I was inexpressibly shocked. All that I had heard of his misery occurring to my memory, made me conclude, that he was at that very moment, meditating suicide! Struck with the dreadful idea, all my strength seemed to fail me. He moved on slowly, yet I soon lost sight of him; I sat motionless with terror; all power of action forsook me; and I grew almost stiff with horror: till recollecting that it was yet possible to prevent the fatal deed, all my faculties seemed to return, with the hope of saving him.
My first thought was to fly to Mr Branghton, but I feared that an instant of time lost, might for ever be rued; and therefore, guided by the impulse of my apprehensions, as well as I was able, I followed him up stairs, stepping very softly, and obliged to support myself by the banisters.
When I came within a few stairs of the landing-place, I stopped, for I could then see into his room, as he had not yet shut the door.
He had put the pistol upon a table, and had his hand in his pocket, whence, in a few moments, he took out another. He then emptied something on the table from a small leather bag; after which, taking up both the pistols, one in each hand, he dropped hastily upon his knees, and called out ‘O God! – forgive me!’
In a moment, strength, and courage seemed lent me as by inspiration: I started, and rushing precipitately into the room, just caught his arm, and then, overcome by my own fears, I fell down at his side, breathless and senseless. My recovery, however, was, I believe, almost instantaneous; and then the sight of this unhappy man, regarding me with a look of unutterable astonishment, mixed with concern, presently restored to me my recollection. I arose, though with difficulty; he did the same; the pistols, as I soon saw, were both on the floor.
Unwilling to leave them, and, indeed, too weak to move, I leaned one hand on the table, and then stood perfectly still: while he, his eyes cast wildly towards me, seemed too infinitely amazed to be capable of either speech or action.
I believe we were some minutes in this extraordinary situation; but as my strength returned, I felt myself both ashamed and awkward, and moved towards the door. Pale, and motionless, he suffered me to pass, without changing his posture, or uttering a syllable; and, indeed,
He looked a bloodless image of despair!
When I reached the door, I turned round; I looked fearfully at the pistols, and, impelled by an emotion I could not repress, I hastily stepped back, with an intention of carrying them away: but their wretched owner, perceiving my design, and recovering from his astonishment, darting suddenly down, seized them both himself.
Wild with fright, and scarce knowing what I did, I caught, almost involuntarily hold of both his arms, and exclaimed, ‘O Sir! have mercy on yourself!’
The guilty pistols fell from his hands, which, disengaging from me, he fervently clasped, and cried, ‘Sweet Heaven! is this thy angel?’
Encouraged by such gentleness, I again attempted to take the pistols, but, with a look half frantic, he again prevented me, saying, ‘What would you do?’
‘Awaken you,’ I cried, with a courage I now wonder at, ‘to worthier thoughts, and rescue you from perdition.’
I then seized the pistols; he said not a word, – he made no effort to stop me; – I glided quick by him, and tottered down stairs, ere he had recovered from the extremest amazement.
The moment I reached again the room I had so fearfully left, I threw away the pi
stols, and flinging myself on the first chair, gave free vent to the feelings I had most painfully stifled, in a violent burst of tears, which, indeed, proved a happy relief to me.
In this situation I remained some time; but when, at length, I lifted up my head, the first object I saw was the poor man who had occasioned my terror, standing, as if petrified, at the door, and gazing at me with eyes of wild wonder.
I started from the chair, but trembled so excessively, that I almost instantly sunk again into it. He then, though without advancing, and in a faltering voice, said, ‘Whoever or whatever you are, relieve me, I pray you, from the suspense under which my soul labours – and tell me if indeed I do not dream!’
To this address, so singular and so solemn, I had not then the presence of mind to frame any answer: but, as I presently perceived that his eyes turned from me to the pistols, and that he seemed to intend regaining them, I exerted all my strength, and saying ‘O for Heaven’s sake forbear!’ I rose and took them myself.
‘Do my senses deceive me!’ cried he, ‘do I live – ? and do you?’
As he spoke, he advanced towards me! and I, still guarding the pistols, retreated, saying ‘No, no – you must not – must not have them!’ –
‘Why – for what purpose, tell me! – do you withhold them?’ –
‘To give you time to think, – to save you from eternal misery, – and, I hope, to reserve you for mercy, – and forgiveness.’
‘Wonderful!’ cried he, with uplifted hands and eyes, ‘most wonderful!’
For some time, he seemed wrapped in deep thought, till a sudden noise of tongues below, announcing the approach of the Branghtons, made him start from his reverie: he sprung hastily forward, – dropped on one knee, – caught hold of my gown, which he pressed to his lips, and then, quick as lightning, he rose, and flew up stairs to his own room.
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