“My Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “if experience alone can justify mentioning them, what an admirable treatise upon the subject may we not expect from your Lordship!”
“O, pray, Ma’am,” answered he, “stick to Jack Coverley—he’s your only man; for my part, I confess I have a mortal aversion to arguments.”
“O, fie, my Lord,” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “a senator of the nation! a member of the noblest parliament in the world!—and yet neglect the art of oratory!”
“Why, faith, my Lord,” said Mr. Lovel, “I think, in general, your House is not much addicted to study; we of the Lower House have indubitably most application; and, if I did not speak before a superior power (bowing to Lord Merton) I should presume to add, we have likewise the most able speakers.”
“Mr. Lovel,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “you deserve immortality for that discovery! But for this observation, and the confession of Lord Merton, I protest that I should have supposed that a peer of the realm, and an able logician, were synonymous terms.”
Lord Merton, turning upon his heel, asked Lady Louisa if she would take the air before dinner?
“Really,” answered she, “I don’t know;—I’m afraid it’s monstrous hot; besides (putting her hand to her forehead) I an’t half well; it’s quite horrid to have such weak nerves!—the least thing in the world discomposes me: I declare, that man’s oddness has given me such a shock—I don’t know when I shall recover from it. But I’m a sad, weak creature;—don’t you think I am, my Lord?”
“O, by no means,” answered he, “your Ladyship is merely delicate—and devil take me if ever I had the least passion for an Amazon.”
“I have the honour to be quite of your Lordship’s opinion,” said Mr. Lovel, looking maliciously at Mrs. Selwyn; “for I have an insuperable aversion to strength, either of body or mind, in a female.”
“Faith, and so have I,” said Mr. Coverley; “for egad, I’d as soon see a woman chop wood, as hear her chop logic.”
“So would every man in his senses,” said Lord Merton, “for a woman wants nothing to recommend her but beauty and good-nature; in everything else she is either impertinent or unnatural. For my part, deuce take me if ever I wish to hear a word of sense from a woman as long as I live!”
“It has always been agreed,” said Mrs. Selwyn, looking round her with the utmost contempt, “that no man ought to be connected with a woman whose understanding is superior to his own. Now I very much fear, that to accommodate all this good company, according to such a rule, would be utterly impracticable, unless we should choose subjects from Swift’s hospital of idiots.”
How many enemies, my dear Sir, does this unbounded severity excite! Lord Merton, however, only whistled; Mr. Coverley sang; and Mr. Lovel, after biting his lips, said “ ’Pon honour, that lady—if she was not a lady—I should be half tempted to observe—that there is something—in such severity—that is rather, I must say—rather oddish.”
Just then a servant brought Lady Louisa a note upon a waiter, which is a ceremony always used to her Ladyship; and I took the opportunity of this interruption to the conversation to steal out of the room.
I went immediately to the parlour, which I found quite empty; for I did not dare walk in the garden, after what Mrs. Selwyn had said.
In a few minutes a servant announced Mr. Macartney; saying, as he entered the room, that he would acquaint Lord Orville he was there.
Mr. Macartney rejoiced much at finding me alone. He told me he had taken the liberty to enquire for Lord Orville, by way of pretext for coming to the house.
I then very eagerly enquired if he had seen his father.
“I have, Madam,” said he, “and the generous compassion you have shown made me hasten to acquaint you, that, upon reading my unhappy mother’s letter, he did not hesitate to acknowledge me.”
“Good God,” cried I, with no little emotion, “how similar are our circumstances! And did he receive you kindly?”
“I could not, Madam, expect that he would; the cruel transaction, which obliged me to fly to Paris, was recent in his memory.”
“And—have you seen the young lady?”
“No, Madam,” said he, mournfully, “I was forbid her sight.”
“Forbid her sight!—and why?”
“Partly, perhaps, from prudence—and partly from the remains of a resentment which will not easily subside. I only requested leave to acquaint her with my relationship, and to be allowed to call her sister;—but it was denied me! ‘You have no sister,’ said Sir John, ‘you must forget her existence.’ Hard and vain command!”
“You have—you have a sister!” cried I, from an impulse of pity, which I could not repress; “a sister who is most warmly interested in your welfare, and who only wants opportunity to manifest her friendship and regard.”
“Gracious Heaven!” cried he, “what does Miss Anville mean?”
“Anville,” said I, “is not my real name; Sir John Belmont is my father—he is yours—and I am your sister!—You see, therefore, the claim we mutually have to each other’s regard; we are not merely bound by the ties of friendship, but by those of blood. I feel for you, already, all the affection of a sister; I felt it, indeed, before I knew I was one.—Why, my dear brother, do you not speak?—do you hesitate to acknowledge me?”
“I am so lost in astonishment,” cried he, “that I know not if I hear right!”—
“I have, then, found a brother,” cried I, holding out my hand, “and he will not own me!”
“Own you!—Oh, Madam,” cried he, accepting my offered hand, “is it indeed possible you can own me?—a poor, wretched adventurer! who so lately had no support but from your generosity?—whom your benevolence snatched from utter destruction?—Can you—Oh, Madam, can you, indeed, and without a blush, condescend to own such an outcast for a brother?”
“Oh, forbear, forbear,” cried I, “is this language proper for a sister? are we not
