Lord Orville was all gaiety; never did I see him more lively or more agreeable. Very soon after, Sir Clement Willoughby called, to pay his respects, he said, to Mrs. Beaumont. I then came to my own room, where, indulging my reflections, which, now soothed, and now alarmed me, I remained very quietly, till I received your most kind letter.
Oh, Sir, how sweet are the prayers you offer for your Evelina! how grateful to her are the blessings you pour upon her head!—You commit me to my real parent—Ah, Guardian, Friend, Protector of my youth—by whom my helpless infancy was cherished, my mind formed, my very life preserved—you are the Parent my heart acknowledges, and to you do I vow eternal duty, gratitude, and affection!
I look forward to the approaching interview with more fear than hope; but, important as is this subject, I am just now wholly engrossed with another, which I must hasten to communicate.
I immediately acquainted Mrs. Selwyn with the purport of your letter. She was charmed to find your opinion agreed with her own, and settled that we should go to town tomorrow morning: and a chaise is actually ordered to be here by one o’clock.
She then desired me to pack up my clothes; and said she must go herself to make speeches and tell lies to Mrs. Beaumont.
When I went downstairs to dinner, Lord Orville, who was still in excellent spirits, reproached me for secluding myself so much from the company. He sat next me—he would sit next me—at table; and he might, I am sure, repeat what he once said of me before, that he almost exhausted himself in fruitless endeavours to entertain me;—for, indeed, I was not to be entertained: I was totally spiritless and dejected; the idea of the approaching meeting—and Oh, Sir, the idea of the approaching parting—gave a heaviness to my heart that I could neither conquer nor repress. I even regretted the half explanation that had passed, and wished Lord Orville had supported his own reserve, and suffered me to support mine.
However, when, during dinner, Mrs. Beaumont spoke of our journey, my gravity was no longer singular; a cloud instantly overspread the countenance of Lord Orville, and he became nearly as thoughtful and as silent as myself.
We all went together to the drawing room. After a short and unentertaining conversation, Mrs. Selwyn said she must prepare for her journey, and begged me to see for some books she had left in the parlour.
And here, while I was looking for them, I was followed by Lord Orville. He shut the door after he came in, and, approaching me with a look of anxiety, said, “Is this true, Miss Anville, are you going?”
“I believe so, my Lord,” said I, still looking for the books.
“So suddenly, so unexpectedly must I lose you?”
“No great loss, my Lord,” cried I, endeavouring to speak cheerfully.
“Is it possible,” said he gravely, “Miss Anville can doubt my sincerity?”
“I can’t imagine,” cried I, “what Mrs. Selwyn has done with these books.”
“Would to Heaven,” continued he, “I might flatter myself you would allow me to prove it!”
“I must run upstairs,” cried I, greatly confused, “and ask what she has done with them.”
“You are going, then,” cried he, taking my hand, “and you give me not the smallest hope of your return!—will you not, then, my too lovely friend!—will you not, at least, teach me, with fortitude like your own, to support your absence?”
“My Lord,” cried I, endeavouring to disengage my hand, “pray let me go!”
“I will,” cried he, to my inexpressible confusion, dropping on one knee, “if you wish to leave me!”
“O, my Lord,” exclaimed I, “rise, I beseech you, rise!—such a posture to me!—surely your Lordship is not so cruel as to mock me!”
“Mock you!” repeated he earnestly, “no I revere you! I esteem and I admire you above all human beings! you are the friend to whom my soul is attached as to its better half! you are the most amiable, the most perfect of women! and you are dearer to me than language has the power of telling.”
I attempt not to describe my sensations at that moment; I scarce breathed; I doubted if I existed—the blood forsook my cheeks, and my feet refused to sustain me: Lord Orville, hastily rising, supported me to a chair, upon which I sunk, almost lifeless.
For a few minutes, we neither of us spoke; and then, seeing me recover, Lord Orville, though in terms hardly articulate, entreated my pardon for his abruptness. The moment my strength returned, I attempted to rise, but he would not permit me.
I cannot write the scene that followed, though every word is engraven on my heart; but his protestations, his expressions, were too flattering for repetition: nor would he, in spite of my repeated efforts to leave him, suffer me to escape:—in short, my dear Sir, I was not proof against his solicitations—and he drew from me the most sacred secret of my heart!
I know not how long we were together; but Lord Orville was upon his knees, when the door was opened by Mrs. Selwyn!—To tell you, Sir, the shame with which I overwhelmed, would be impossible;—I snatched my hand from Lord Orville—he, too, started and rose, and Mrs. Selwyn, for some instants, stood facing us both in silence.
At last, “My Lord,” said she, sarcastically, “have you been so good as to help Miss Anville to look for my books?”
“Yes, Madam,” answered he, attempting to rally, “and I hope we shall soon be able to find them.”
“Your Lordship is extremely kind,” said she, drily, “but I can by no means consent to take up any more of your time.” Then looking on the window-seat, she presently found the books, and added, “Come, here are just three, and so like the Servants in The Drummer, this important affair may give employment to us all.” She then presented one of them to Lord
