“Sir Clement,” cried Lord Orville, with some heat, “we will discuss this point no further; we are both free agents, and must act for ourselves.”
Here Mrs. Selwyn, fearing a surprise, and finding my apprehensions of danger were groundless, retired hastily into another walk, and soon after came to give me this account.
Good Heaven, what a man is this Sir Clement! So designing, though so easy; so deliberately artful, though so flighty! Greatly, however, is he mistaken, all confident as he seems; for the girl, obscure, poor, dependent as she is, far from wishing the honour of his alliance, would not only now, but always have rejected it.
As to Lord Orville—but I will not trust my pen to mention him—tell me, my dear Sir, what you think of him?—tell me if he is not the noblest of men?—and if you can either wonder at, or blame my admiration?
The idea of being seen immediately by either party, after so singular a conversation, was both awkward and distressing to me; but I was obliged to appear at dinner. Sir Clement, I saw, was absent and uneasy; he watched me, he watched Lord Orville, and was evidently disturbed in his mind. Whenever he spoke to me, I turned from him with undisguised disdain, for I am too much irritated against him, to bear with his ill-meant assiduities any longer.
But, not once—not a moment, did I dare meet the eyes of Lord Orville! All consciousness myself, I dreaded his penetration, and directed mine every way—but towards his. The rest of the day I never quitted Mrs. Selwyn.
Adieu, my dear Sir: tomorrow I expect your directions, whether I am to return to Berry Hill, or once more to visit London.
Letter LXXVI
Evelina in Continuation
.
And now, my dearest Sir, if the perturbation of my spirits will allow me, I will finish my last letter from Clifton Hill. This morning, though I did not go downstairs early, Lord Orville was the only person in the parlour when I entered it. I felt no small confusion at seeing him alone, after having so long and successfully avoided such a meeting. As soon as the usual compliments were over, I would have left the room, but he stopped me by saying, “If I disturb you Miss Anville, I am gone.”
“My Lord,” said I, rather embarrassed, “I did not mean to stay.”
“I flattered myself,” cried he, “I should have had a moment’s conversation with you.”
I then turned back; and he seemed himself in some perplexity: but, after a short pause, “You are very good,” said he, “to indulge my request; I have, indeed, for some time past, most ardently desired an opportunity of speaking to you.”
Again he paused; but I said nothing, so he went on.
“You allowed me, Madam, a few days since, you allowed me to lay claim to your friendship—to interest myself in your affairs—to call you by the affectionate title of sister;—and the honour you did me, no man could have been more sensible of; I am ignorant, therefore, how I have been so unfortunate as to forfeit it:—but, at present, all is changed! you fly me—your averted eye shuns to meet mine, and you sedulously avoid my conversation.”
I was extremely disconcerted at this grave, and but too just accusation, and I am sure I must look very simple;—but I made no answer.
“You will not, I hope,” continued he, “condemn me unheard; if there is anything I have done—or anything I have neglected, tell me, I beseech you, what, and it shall be the whole study of my thoughts how to deserve your pardon.”
“Oh, my Lord,” cried I, penetrated at once with shame and gratitude, “your too, too great politeness oppresses me!—you have done nothing—I have never dreamt of offence—if there is any pardon to be asked it is rather for me, than for you to ask it.”
“You are all sweetness and condescension!” cried he, “and I flatter myself you will again allow me to claim those titles which I find myself so unable to forego. Yet, occupied as I am, with an idea that gives me the greatest uneasiness, I hope you will not think me impertinent, if I still solicit, still entreat, nay implore, you to tell me, to what cause your late sudden, and to me most painful, reserve was owing?”
“Indeed, my Lord,” said I, stammering, “I don’t—I can’t—indeed, my Lord—”
“I am sorry to distress you,” said he, “and ashamed to be so urgent—yet I know not how to be satisfied while in ignorance—and the time when the change happened, makes me apprehend—may I, Miss Anville, tell you what it makes me apprehend?”
“Certainly, my Lord.”
“Tell me, then—and pardon a question most essentially important to me;—Had, or had not, Sir Clement Willoughby any share in causing your inquietude?”
“No, my Lord,” answered I, with firmness, “none in the world.”
“A thousand, thousand thanks!” cried he: “you have relieved me from a weight of conjecture which I supported very painfully. But one thing more; is it, in any measure, to Sir Clement that I may attribute the alteration in your behaviour to myself, which, I could not but observe, began the very day after his arrival at the Hot Wells?”
“To Sir Clement, my Lord,” said I, “attribute nothing. He is the last man in the world who would have any influence over my conduct.”
“And will you, then, restore to me that share of confidence and favour with which you honoured me before he came?”
Just then, to my great relief—for I knew not what
