I still kept my seat, and he either saw me not, or would not yet see me; and addressing himself to my mother, taking her unwilling hand, with an air of high assurance, I am glad to see you here, Madam, I hope Miss Howe is well. I have reason to complain greatly of her: but hope to owe to her the highest obligation that can be laid on man.
My daughter, Sir, is accustomed to be too warm and too zealous in her friendships for either my tranquility or her own.
There had indeed been some late occasion given for mutual displeasure between my mother and me: but I think she might have spared this to him; though nobody heard it, I believe, but the person to whom it was spoken, and the lady who told it me; for my mother spoke it low.
We are not wholly, Madam, to live for ourselves, said the vile hypocrite: it is not everyone who had a soul capable of friendship: and what a heart must that be, which can be insensible to the interests of a suffering friend?
This sentiment from Mr. Lovelace’s mouth! said my mother—forgive me, Sir; but you can have no end, surely, in endeavouring to make me think as well of you as some innocent creatures have thought of you to their cost.
She would have flung from him. But, detaining her hand—Less severe, dear Madam, said he, be less severe in this place, I beseech you. You will allow, that a very faulty person may see his errors; and when he does, and owns them, and repents, should he not be treated mercifully?
Your air, Sir, seems not to be that of a penitent. But the place may as properly excuse this subject, as what you call my severity.
But, dearest Madam, permit me to say, that I hope for your interest with your charming daughter (was his syncophant word) to have it put in my power to convince all the world that there never was a truer penitent. And why, why this anger, dear Madam, (for she struggled to get her hand out of his), these violent airs—so maidenly! (impudent fellow!)—May I not ask, if Miss Howe be here?
She would not have been here, replied my mother, had she known whom she had been to see.
And is she here, then?—Thank Heaven!—he disengaged her hand, and stepped forward into company.
Dear Miss Lloyd, said he, with an air, (taking her hand as he quitted my mother’s), tell me, tell me, is Miss Arabella Harlowe here? Or will she be here? I was informed she would—and this, and the opportunity of paying my compliments to your friend Miss Howe, were great inducements with me to attend the Colonel.
Superlative assurance! was it not, my dear?
Miss Arabella Harlowe, excuse me, Sir, said Miss Lloyd, would be very little inclined to meet you here, or anywhere else.
Perhaps so, my dear Miss Lloyd: but, perhaps, for that very reason, I am more desirous to see her.
Miss Harlowe, Sir, and Miss Biddulph, with a threatening air, will hardly be here without her brother. I imagine, if one comes, both will come.
Heaven grant they both may! said the wretch. Nothing, Miss Biddulph, shall begin from me to disturb this assembly, I assure you, if they do. One calm half-hour’s conversation with that brother and sister, would be a most fortunate opportunity to me, in presence of the Colonel and his lady, or whom else they should choose.
Then, turning round, as if desirous to find out the one or the other, he ’spied me, and with a very low bow, approached me.
I was all in a flutter, you may suppose. He would have taken my hand. I refused it, all glowing with indignation: everybody’s eyes upon us.
I went down from him to the other end of the room, and sat down, as I thought, out of his hated sight; but presently I heard his odious voice, whispering, behind my chair, (he leaning upon the back of it, with impudent unconcern), Charming Miss Howe! looking over my shoulder: one request—(I started up from my seat; but could hardly stand neither, for very indignation)—O this sweet, but becoming disdain! whispered on the insufferable creature—I am sorry to give you all this emotion: but either here, or at your own house, let me entreat from you one quarter of an hour’s audience.—I beseech you, Madam, but one quarter of an hour, in any of the adjoining apartments.
Not for a kingdom, fluttering my fan. I knew not what I did.—But I could have killed him.
We are so much observed—else on my knees, my dear Miss Howe, would I beg your interest with your charming friend.
She’ll have nothing to say to you.
(I had not then your letters, my dear).
Killing words!—But indeed I have deserved them, and a dagger in my heart besides. I am so conscious of my demerits, that I have no hope, but in your interposition—could I owe that favour to Miss Howe’s mediation which I cannot hope for on any other account—
My mediation, vilest of men!—My mediation!—I abhor you!—From my soul, I abhor you, vilest of men!—Three or four times I repeated these words, stammering too.—I was excessively fluttered.
You can tell me nothing, Madam, so bad as I will call myself. I have been, indeed, the vilest of men; but now I am not so. Permit me—everybody’s eyes are upon us!—but one moment’s audience—to exchange but ten words with you, dearest Miss Howe—in whose presence you please—for your dear friend’s sake—but ten words with you in the next apartment.
It is an insult upon me to presume that I would exchange one with you, if I could help it!—Out of my way! Out of my sight—fellow!
And away I would have flung: but he took my hand. I was excessively disordered—everybody’s eyes more
