Evelina

by Frances Burney

  I have just received your letter, – and it has almost broken my heart! – Oh, Sir! the illusion is over indeed! – How vainly have I flattered, how miserably deceived myself! Long since, doubtful of the situation of my heart, I dreaded a scrutiny, – but now, now that I have so long escaped, I began, indeed, to think my safety insured, to hope that my fears were causeless, and to believe that my good opinion and esteem of Lord Orville might be owned without suspicion, and felt without danger: – miserably deceived, indeed!

  His sight is baneful to my repose, – his society is death to my future tranquillity! – Oh, Lord Orville! could I have believed that a friendship so grateful to my heart, so soothing to my distresses, – a friendship which, in every respect, did me so much honour, would only serve to embitter all my future moments! – What a strange, what an unhappy circumstance, that my gratitude, though so justly excited, should be so fatal to my peace!

  Yes, Sir, I will quit him; – would to Heaven I could at this moment! without seeing him again, – without trusting to my now conscious emotion! – Oh, Lord Orville, how little do you know the evils I owe to you! how little suppose that, when most dignified by your attention, I was most to be pitied, – and when most exalted by your notice, you were most my enemy!

  You, Sir, relied upon my ignorance; – I, alas, upon your experience; and, whenever I doubted the weakness of my heart, the idea that you did not suspect it, reassured me, – restored my courage, and confirmed my error! – Yet am I most sensible of the kindness of your silence.

  Oh, Sir! why have I ever quitted you! why been exposed to dangers to which I am so unequal?

  But I will leave this place, – leave Lord Orville, – leave him, perhaps, for ever! no matter; your counsel, your goodness, may teach me how to recover the peace and the serenity of which my unguarded folly has beguiled me. To you alone do I trust, – in you alone confide for every future hope I may form.

  The more I consider of parting with Lord Orville, the less fortitude do I feel to bear the separation; – the friendship he has shewn me, – his politeness, – his sweetness of manners, – his concern in my affairs, – his solicitude to oblige me, – all to be given up! –

  No, I cannot tell him I am going, – I dare not trust myself to take leave of him, – I will run away without seeing him: – implicitly will I follow your advice, avoid his sight, and shun his society!

  To-morrow morning I will set off for Berry Hill. Mrs Selwyn and Mrs Beaumont shall alone know my intention. And today, – I will spend in my own room. The readiness of my obedience is the only atonement I can offer, for the weakness which calls for its exertion.

  Can you, will you, most honoured, most dear Sir! sole prop by which the poor Evelina is supported, – can you, without reproach, without displeasure, receive the child you have so carefully reared, – from whose education better fruit might have been expected, and who, blushing for her unworthiness, fears to meet the eye by which she has been cherished? – Oh yes, I am sure you will! Your Evelina’s errors are those of the judgement, – and you, I well know, pardon all but those of the heart!

  Letter Ten

  Evelina in continuation

  Clifton, October 1

  I have only time, my dearest Sir, for three words, to overtake my last letter, and prevent your expecting me immediately; for, when I communicated my intention to Mrs Selwyn, she would not hear of it, and declared it would be highly ridiculous for me to go before I received an answer to my intelligence concerning the journey from Paris. She has, therefore, insisted upon my waiting till your next letter arrives. I hope you will not be displeased at my compliance though it is rather against my own judgement; but Mrs Selwyn quite overpowered me with the force of her arguments. I will, however, see very little of Lord Orville; I will never come down stairs before breakfast; give up all my walks in the garden; – seat myself next to Mrs Selwyn, and not merely avoid his conversation, but shun his presence. I will exert all the prudence and all the resolution in my power, to prevent this short delay from giving you any further uneasiness.

  Adieu, my dearest Sir. I shall not now leave Clifton till I have your directions.

  Letter Eleven

  Evelina in continuation

  October 2d

  Yesterday, from the time I received your kind, though heart-piercing letter, I kept my room, – for I was equally unable and unwilling to see Lord Orville: but this morning, finding I seemed destined to pass a few days longer here, I endeavoured to calm my spirits, and to appear as usual; though I determined to avoid him to the utmost of my power. Indeed, as I entered the parlour, when called to breakfast, my thoughts were so much occupied with your letter, that I felt as much confusion at his sight, as if he had himself been informed of its contents.

  Mrs Beaumont made me a slight compliment upon my recovery, for I had pleaded illness to excuse keeping my room: Lady Louisa spoke not a word: but Lord Orville, little imagining himself the cause of my indisposition, enquired concerning my health with the most distinguishing politeness. I hardly made any answer, and, for the first time since I have been here, contrived to sit at some distance from him.

  I could not help observing that my reserve surprised him; yet he persisted in his civilities, and seemed to wish to remove it. But I paid him very little attention; and the moment breakfast was over, instead of taking a book, or walking in the garden, I retired to my own room.

  Soon after, Mrs Selwyn came to tell me that Lord Orville had been proposing I should take an airing, and persuading her to let him drive us both in his phaeton. She delivered the message with an archness that made me blush; and added, that an airing, in my Lord Orville’s carriage, could not fail to revive my spirits. There is no possibility of escaping her discernment; she has frequently rallied me upon his Lordship’s attention, – and, alas! – upon the pleasure with which I have received it! However, I absolutely refused the offer.

  ‘Well,’ said she, laughing, ‘I cannot just now indulge you with any solicitation; for, to tell you the truth, I have business to transact at the Wells, and am glad to be excused myself. I would ask you to walk with me, – but, since Lord Orville is refused, I have not the presumption to hope for success.’

  ‘Indeed,’ cried I, ‘you are mistaken; I will attend you with pleasure.’

  ‘O rare coquetry!’ cried she, ‘surely it must be inherent in our sex, or it could not have been imbibed at Berry Hill.’

  I had not spirits to answer her, and therefore put on my hat and cloak in silence.

  ‘I presume,’ continued she, drily, ‘his Lordship may walk with us?’

  ‘If so, Madam,’ said I, ‘you will have a companion, and I will stay at home.’

  ‘My dear child,’ cried she, ‘did you bring the certificate of your birth with you?’

  ‘Dear Madam, no!’

  ‘Why then, we shall never be known again at Berry Hill.’

  I felt too conscious to enjoy her pleasantry; but I believe she was determined to torment me; for she asked if she should inform Lord Orville that I desired him not to be of the party?

  ‘By no means, Madam; – but, indeed, I had rather not walk myself.’

  ‘My dear,’ cried she, ‘I really do not know you this morning, – you have certainly been taking a lesson of Lady Louisa.’

  She then went down stairs; but presently returning, told me she had acquainted Lord Orville that I did not chuse to go out in the phaeton, but preferred a walk, tête-à-tête with her, by way of variety.

  I said nothing, but was really vexed. She bid me go down stairs, and said she would follow immediately.

  Lord Orville met me in the hall. ‘I fear,’ said he, ‘Miss Anville is not yet quite well?’ and he would have taken my hand, but I turned from him, and courtsying slightly, went into the parlour.

  Mrs Beaumont and Lady Louisa were at work: Lord Merton was talking with the latter, for he has now made his peace, and is again received into favour.

  I seated myself, as usual, by the window. Lord Orvil
le, in a few minutes, came to me, and said, ‘Why is Miss Anville so grave?’

  ‘Not grave, my Lord,’ said I, ‘only stupid;’ and I took up a book.

  ‘You will go,’ said he, after a short pause, ‘to the assembly tonight?’

  ‘No, my Lord, certainly not.’

  ‘Neither, then, will I; for I should be sorry to sully the remembrance I have of the happiness I enjoyed at the last.’

  Mrs Selwyn then coming in, general enquires were made, to all but me, of who would go to the assembly. Lord Orville instantly declared he had letters to write at home; but every one else settled to go.

  I then hastened Mrs Selwyn away, though not before she had said to Lord Orville, ‘Pray, has your Lordship obtained Miss Anville’s leave to favour us with your company?’

  ‘I have not, Madam,’ answered he, ‘had the vanity to ask it.’

  During our walk, Mrs Selwyn tormented me unmercifully. She told me, that since I declined any addition to our party, I must, doubtless, be conscious of my own powers of entertainment; and begged me, therefore, to exert them freely. I repented a thousand times having consented to walk alone with her: for though I made the most painful efforts to appear in spirits, her raillery quite overpowered me.

  We went first to the Pump-room. It was full of company! and the moment we entered, I heard a murmuring of, ‘That’s she!’ and, to my great confusion, I saw every eye turned towards me. I pulled my hat over my face, and, by the assistance of Mrs Selwyn, endeavoured to screen myself from observation: nevertheless, I found I was so much the object of general attention, that I entreated her to hasten away. But unfortunately, she had entered into conversation, very earnestly, with a gentleman of her acquaintance, and would not listen to me but said, that if I was tired of waiting, I might walk on to the milliner’s with the Miss Watkins, two young ladies I had seen at Mrs Beaumont’s, who were going thither.

  I accepted the offer very readily, and away we went. But we had not gone three yards, before we were followed by a party of young men, who took every possible opportunity of looking at us, and, as they walked behind, talked aloud, in a manner at once unintelligible and absurd. ‘Yes,’ cried one, ‘’tis certainly she! – mark but her blushing cheek!’

  ‘And then her eye, – her downcast eye!’ cried another.

  ‘True, oh most true,’ said a third, ‘every beauty is her own!’

  ‘But then,’ said the first, ‘her mind, – now the difficulty is, to find out the truth of that, for she will not say a word.’

  ‘She is timid,’ answered another; ‘mark but her timid air.’

  During this conversation, we walked on silent and quick; as we knew not to whom it was particularly addressed, we were all equally ashamed, and equally desirous to avoid such unaccountable observations.

  Soon after, we were caught in a shower of rain. We hurried on, and these gentlemen, following us, offered their services in the most pressing manner, begging us to make use of their arms; and while I almost ran, in order to avoid their impertinence, I was suddenly met by Sir Clement Willoughby!

  We both started; ‘Good God,’ he exclaimed, ‘Miss Anville!’ and then, regarding my tormentors with an air of displeasure, he earnestly enquired, if any thing had alarmed me?

  ‘No, no,’ cried I, for I found no difficulty, now, to disengage myself from these youths, who, probably, concluding from the commanding air of Sir Clement, that he had a right to protect me, quietly gave way to him, and entirely quitted us.

  With his usual impetuosity, he then began a thousand enquires, accompanied with as many compliments; and he told me, that he arrived at Bristol but this morning, which he had entirely devoted to endeavours to discover where I lodged.

  ‘Did you know then,’ said I, ‘that I was at Bristol?’

  ‘Would to Heaven,’ cried he, ‘that I could remain in ignorance of your proceedings with the same contentment you do of mine! then should I not for ever journey upon the wings of hope, to meet my own despair! You cannot even judge of the cruelty of my fate, for the ease and serenity of your mind, incapacitates you from feeling for the agitation of mine.’

  The ease and serenity of my mind! alas, how little do I merit those words!

  ‘But,’ added he, ‘had accident brought me hither, had I not known of your journey, the voice of fame would have proclaimed it to me instantly upon my arrival.’

  ‘The voice of fame!’ repeated I.

  ‘Yes, for your’s was the first name I heard at the Pump-room. But had I not heard your name, such a description could have painted no one else.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said I, ‘I do not understand you.’ But, just then arriving at the milliner’s, our conversation ended; for Miss Watkins called me to look at caps and ribbons.

  Sir Clement, however, has the art of being always at home; he was very soon engaged, as busily as ourselves, in looking at lace ruffles. Yet he took an opportunity of saying to me in a low voice, ‘How charmed I am to see you look so well! I was told you were ill, – but I never saw you in better health, – never more infinitely lovely!’

  I turned away, to examine the ribbons, and soon after Mrs Selwyn made her appearance. I found that she was acquainted with Sir Clement, and her manner of speaking to him, convinced me that he was a favourite with her.

  When their mutual compliments were over, she turned to me, and said, ‘Pray, Miss Anville, how long can you live without nourishment?’

  ‘Indeed, Ma’am,’ said I, laughing, ‘I have never tried.’

  ‘Because so long, and no longer,’ answered she, ‘you may remain at Bristol.’

  ‘Why, what is the matter, Ma’am?’

  ‘The matter! – why, all the ladies are at open war with you, – the whole Pump-room is in confusion; and you, innocent as you pretend to look, are the cause. However, if you take my advice, you will be very careful how you eat and drink during your stay.’

  I begged her to explain herself: and she then told me, that a copy of verses had been dropped in the Pump-room, and read there aloud: ‘The Beauties of the Wells,’ said she, ‘are all mentioned, but you are the Venus to whom the prize is given.’

  ‘Is it then possible,’ cried Sir Clement, ‘that you have not seen these verses?’

  ‘I hardly know,’ answered I, ‘whether any body has.’

  ‘I assure you,’ said Mrs Selwyn, ‘if you give me the invention of them, you do me an honour I by no means deserve.’

  ‘I wrote down in my tablets,’ said Sir Clement, ‘the stanzas which concern Miss Anville, this morning at the Pump-room; and I will do myself the honour of copying them for her this evening.’

  ‘But why the part that concerns Miss Anville?’ said Mrs Selwyn; ‘Did you ever see her before this morning?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ answered he, ‘I have had that happiness frequently at Captain Mirvan’s. Too, too frequently!’ added he, in a low voice, as Mrs Selwyn turned to the milliner: and, as soon as she was occupied in examining some trimmings, he came to me, and, almost whether I would or not, entered into conversation with me.

  ‘I have a thousand things,’ cried he, ‘to say to you. Pray where are you?’

  ‘With Mrs Selwyn, Sir.’

  ‘Indeed – then, for once, Chance is my friend. And how long have you been here?’

  ‘About three weeks.’

  ‘Good Heaven! what an anxious search have I had, to discover your abode, since you so suddenly left town! The termagant Madame Duval refused me all intelligence. Oh, Miss Anville, did you know what I have endured! the sleepless, restless state of suspence I have been tortured with, you could not, all cruel as you are, you could not have received me with such frigid indifference!’

  ‘Received you, Sir!’

  ‘Why, is not my visit to you? Do you think I should have made this journey, but for the happiness of again seeing you?’

  ‘Indeed it is possible I might, – since so many others do.’

  ‘Cruel, cruel girl! you know that I adore you! you know you are the m
istress of my soul, and arbitress of my fate!’

  Mrs Selwyn then advancing to us, he assumed a more disengaged air, and asked if he should not have the pleasure of seeing her, in the evening, at the assembly?

  ‘Oh yes,’ cried she, ‘we shall certainly be there; so you may bring the verses with you, if Miss Anville can wait for them so long.’

  ‘I hope, then,’ returned he, ‘that you will do me the honour to dance with me?’

  I thanked him, but said I should not be at the assembly.

  ‘Not be at the assembly!’ cried Mrs Selwyn, ‘Why, have you, too, letters to write?’

  She looked at me with a significant archness that made me colour; and I hastily answered, ‘No, indeed, Ma’am!’

  ‘You have not!’ cried she, yet more drily, ‘then pray, my dear, do you stay at home to help, – or to hinder others?’

  ‘To do neither, Ma’am,’ answered I, in much confusion; ‘so, if you please, I will not stay at home.’

  ‘You allow me, then,’ said Sir Clement, ‘to hope for the honour of your hand?’

  I only bowed, – for the dread of Mrs Selwyn’s raillery made me not dare refuse him.

  Soon after this we walked home; Sir Clement accompanied us, and the conversation that passed between Mrs Selwyn and him was supported in so lively a manner that I should have been much entertained, had my mind been more at ease: but alas! I could think of nothing but the capricious, the unmeaning appearance which the alteration in my conduct must make in the eyes of Lord Orville? And, much as I wish to avoid him, greatly as I desire to save myself from having my weakness known to him, – yet I cannot endure to incur his ill opinion, – and, unacquainted as he is with the reasons by which I am actuated, how can he fail contemning a change to him so unaccountable?

  As we entered the garden, he was the first object we saw. He advanced to meet us, and I could not help observing, that at sight of each other both he and Sir Clement changed colour.