The History of Sir Charles Grandison, Volume 4 (of 7)

I was silent. Ah, Lucy! had Lady D– been the mother of Sir Charles Grandison, with what pleasure could I have listened to her!

You said, my dear, that Sir Charles Grandison will soon leave England: —and then you sighed—Will you be quite open-hearted?—May I ask you a question in hope that you will?

I was silent: yet the word Yes was on my lips.

You have caused it to be told me, that your affections are engaged. This has been a cruel blow upon us. My lord, nevertheless, has heard so much of you, [he is really a good young man, my dear,] that (against my advice, I own,) he would have me introduce him into your company. I see by his looks, that he could admire you above all women. He never was in love: I should be sorry if he were disappointed in his first love. I hope his promised prudence will be his guard, if there be no prospect of his succeeding with you—She paused—I was still silent—

It will be a mark of your frankness of heart, my dear, if, when you take my full meaning, you prevent me speaking more than I need.—I would not oppress you, my sweet love—Such a delicacy, and such a frankness mingled, have I never seen in young woman—But tell me, my dear, has Sir Charles Grandison made his addresses to you?

It was a grievous question for me to answer—But why was it so, my Lucy, when all the hopes I ever had, proceeded from my own presumption, confirmed (that's true, of late!) by his sisters partiality in my favour; and when his unhappy Clementina has such a preferable claim?

What says Miss Byron?

She says, madam, that she reveres Lady D–, and will answer any questions that she puts to her, however affecting—Sir Charles Grandison has not.

Once I thought, proceeded she, that I never would make a second motion, were the woman a princess, who had confessed a prior love, or even liking: but the man is Sir Charles Grandison, whom all women must esteem; and the woman is Miss Byron, whom all men must love. Let me ask you, my dear—Have you any expectation, that the first of men (I will call him so) and the loveliest and most amiable-minded of women, can come together?—You sighed, you know, when you mentioned, that Sir Charles was soon to leave England; and you own that he has not made addresses to you —Don't be uneasy, my love!—We women, in these tender cases, see into each other's hearts from small openings—Look upon me as your mother— What say you, love?

Your ladyship compliments me with delicacy and frankness—It is too hard a question, if I have any of the first, to answer without blushes. A young woman to be supposed to have an esteem for a man, who has made no declarations, and whose behaviour to her is such only as shews a politeness to which he is accustomed, and only the same kind of tenderness as he shews to his sisters;—and whom sometimes he calls sister—as if—Ah, madam, how can one answer?

You have answered, my dear, and with that delicacy and frankness too, which make a principal part of your character. If my son (and he shall not be encouraged in his hopes, if he sees you not, mind as well as person, with his mother's eyes) should not be able to check himself by the apprehensions he has had reason for, of being but a second man in the favour of the object of his wishes [We, my dear, have our delicacies]; could you not allow him a second place in your favour, that might, in time, as he should merit, and as you should subdue your prepossessions, give him a first?—Hush—my dear, for one moment—Your honour, your piety, are my just dependence; and will be his.—And now speak: it is to me, my dear: speak your whole heart: let not any apprehended difficulty— I am a woman as well as you. And prepared to indulge—

Your goodness, madam, and nothing else, interrupted I, gives me difficulty.—My Lord D– seems to me to be a man of merit, and not a disagreeable man in his person and manners. What he said of Sir Charles Grandison, and of his emulation being fired by his example, gave him additional merit with me. He must have a good mind. I wish him acquainted with Sir Charles, for his own sake, and for the sake of the world, which might be benefited by his large power, so happily directed! —But as to myself, I should forfeit the character of frankness of heart, which your ladyship's goodness ascribes to me, if I did not declare, that although I cannot, and, I think ought not to entertain a hope with regard to Sir Charles Grandison, since there is a lady who deserved him by severe sufferings before I knew him; yet is my heart so wholly attached, that I cannot think it just to give the least encouragement to any other proposal.

You are an excellent young woman: but, my dear, if Sir Charles Grandison is engaged—your mind will, it must change. Few women marry their first loves. Your heart—

O, madam! it is already a wedded heart: it is wedded to his merits; his merits will be always the object of my esteem: I can never think of any other, as I ought to think of the man to whom I give my hand.

Like merits, my dear, as person is not the principal motive, may produce like attachments. My Lord D– will be, in your hands, another Sir Charles Grandison.

How good you are, my dear Lady D–! But allow me to repeat, as the strongest expression I can use, because I mean it to carry in it all the force that can be given it, that my heart is already a wedded heart.

You have spoken with great force: God bless you, my dear, as I love you! The matter shall take its course. If my lord should happen to be a single man some time hence (and, I can tell you, that your excellencies will make our choice difficult): and if your mind, from any accident, or from persuasion of friends, should then have received alteration; you may still be happy in each other. I will therefore only thank you for that openness of heart, which must set free the heart of my son—Had you had the least lurking inclination to coquetry, and could have taken pride in conquests, he might have been an undone man.—We will return to the company—But spare him, my dear: you must not talk much. He will love you, if you do, too fervently for his own peace. Try to be a little awkward—I am afraid for him: indeed I am. O that you had never seen Sir Charles Grandison!

I could not answer one word. She took my hand; and led me into the company.

Had I been silent, when my lord directed his discourse to me, or answered only No, or Yes, the Countess would have thought me very vain; and that I ascribed to myself the consequence she so generously gave me, with respect to my lord. I therefore behaved and answered unaffectedly; but avoided such a promptness of speech, as would have looked like making pretensions to knowledge and opinion, though some of my lord's questions were apparently designed to engage me into freedom of discourse. The countess observed me narrowly. She whispered to me, that she did; and made me a very high compliment on my behaviour. How much, Lucy, do I love and reverence her!

My lord was spoken too slightly of, by Miss Grandison, in a former conversation. He is really a fine gentleman. Any woman who is not engaged in her affections, may think herself very happy with him. His conversation was easy and polite, and he said nothing that was low or trifling. Indeed, Lucy, I think Mr. Greville and Mr. Fenwick are as greatly inferior to Lord D–, as Lord D– is to Sir Charles Grandison.

At parting, he requested of me, to be allowed to repeat his visits.

My lord, said the countess, before I could answer, you must not expect a mere stiff maiden answer from Miss Byron: she is above all vulgar forms. She and her cousins have too much politeness, and, I will venture to say, discernment, not to be glad of your acquaintance, as an acquaintance— But, for the rest, you must look to your heart.

I shall be afraid, said he, turning to the countess, to ask your ladyship for an explanation. Miss Byron, I hope, sir, addressing himself to Mr. Reeves, will not refuse me her company, when I pay you my compliments. Then turning to me, I hope, madam, I shall not be punished for admiring you.

My Lord D–, replied I, will be entitled to every civility. I had said more, had he not snatched my hand a little too eagerly, and kissed it.

And thus much for the visit of the Countess of D– and the earl.

***

Did I tell you in my former letter, that Emily is with me half her time? She is a most engaging young creature. Her manners are so pure! Her heart is so sincere and open!—O, Lucy! you would dearly love her. I wish I may be asked to carry her down with me. Yet she adores her guardian: but her reverence for him will not allow of the innocent familiarity in thinking of him, that—I don't know what I would say. But to love with an ardor, that would be dangerous to one's peace, one must have more tenderness than reverence for the object: Don't you think so, Lucy?

Miss Grandison made me one of her flying visits, as she calls them, soon after the countess and my lord went away.

Mr. and Mrs. Reeves told her all that had been said before them by the earl and countess, as well before I went down to them, as after. They could not tell her what passed between that lady and me, when she took me aside. I had not had time to tell them. They referred to me for that: but besides that I was not in spirits, and cared not to say much, I was not willing to be thought by my refusal of so great an offer, to seem to fasten myself upon her brother.

She pitied (who but must?) Lady Clementina. She pitied her brother also: and, seeing me dejected, she clasped her arms about me, and wet my cheek with a sisterly tear.

Is it not very strange, Lucy, that his father should keep him so long abroad? These free-living men! of what absurdities are they not guilty! What misfortunes to others do they not occasion? One might, with the excellent Clementina, ask, What had Mr. Grandison to do in Italy! Or why, if he must go abroad, did he stay so long?

Travelling! Young men travelling! I cannot, my dear, but think it a very nonsensical thing! What can they see, but the ruins of the gay, once busy world, of which they have read?

To see a parcel of giddy boys under the direction of tutors or governors hunting after—What?—Nothing: or, at best, but ruins of ruins; for the imagination, aided by reflection, must be left, after all, to make out the greater glories, which the grave-digger Time has buried too deep for discovery.

And when this grand tour is completed, the travelled youth returns: And, what is his boast? Why to be able to tell, perhaps his better taught friend, who has never been out of his native country, that he has seen in ruins, what the other has a juster idea of from reading; and of which, it is more than probable, he can give a much better account than the traveller.

And are these, petulant Harriet, (methinks, Lucy, you demand,) all the benefits that you will suppose Sir Charles Grandison has reaped from his travelling?

Why, no. But then, in turn, I ask, Is every traveller a Sir Charles Grandison?—And does not even he confess to Dr. Bartlett, that he wished he had never seen Italy? And may not the poor Clementina, and all her family, for her sake, wish he never had?

If an opportunity offers, I don't know, but I may ask Sir Charles, whether, in his conscience, he thinks, that, taking in every consideration, relating to time, expense, risques of life, health, morals, this part of the fashionable education of youth of condition is such an indispensable one, as some seem to suppose it? If Sir Charles Grandison give it not in favour of travelling, I believe it will be concluded, that six parts out of eight of the little masters who are sent abroad for improvement, might as well be kept at home; if, especially, they would be orderly, and let their fathers and mothers know what to do with them.

O, my uncle! I am afraid of you: but spare the poor girl: she acknowledges her petulance, her presumption. The occasion you know, and will pity her for it! However, neither petulance nor presumption shall make her declare as her sentiments what really are not so, in her unprejudiced hours; and she hopes to have her heart always open to conviction.

For the present, Adieu, my Lucy.

P.S. Dr. Bartlett tells me, that Mr. Beauchamp is at Calais, waiting the pleasure of his father; and that Sir Harry has sent express for him, as at his lady's motion.

LETTER X

MISS BYRON.—IN CONTINUATION TUESDAY, APRIL 4

Sir Charles Grandison came to town last night. He was so polite as to send to inquire after my health; and to let Mr. Reeves know, that he would do himself the honour, as he called it, of breakfasting with him this morning. Very ceremonious either for his own sake or for mine— Perhaps for both.

So I am in expectation of seeing within this half-hour, the noble Clementina's future—Ah Lucy!

The compliment, you see, is to Mr. Reeves—Shall I stay above, and see if he will ask for me? He owes me something for the emotion he gave me in Lord L–'s library. Very little of him since have I seen.

'Honour forbids me,' said he, then: 'Yet honour bids me.—But I cannot be ungenerous, selfish.'—These words are still in my ear.—What could he mean by them?—Honour forbids me—What! to explain himself? He had been telling me a tender tale: he had ended it. What did honour forbid him to do?—Yet honour bids me! Why then did he not follow the dictates of honour?

But I cannot be unjust:—To Clementina he means. Who wished him to be so?—Unjust! I hope not. It is a diminution to your glory, Sir Charles Grandison, to have the word unjust, in this way of speaking, in your thoughts! As if a good man had lain under a temptation to be unjust; and had but just recollected himself.

'I cannot be ungenerous.' To the noble lady, I suppose? He must take compassion on her. And did he think himself under an obligation to my forwardness to make this declaration to me, as to one who wished him to be ungenerous to such a lady for my sake!—I cannot bear the thought of this. Is it not as if he had said, 'Fond Harriet, I see what you expect from me—But I must have compassion for, I cannot be ungenerous to, Clementina!'—But, what a poor word is compassion! Noble Clementina! I grieve for you, though the man be indeed a generous man!—O defend me, my better genius, from wanting the compassion even of a Sir Charles Grandison!

But what means he by the word selfish! He cannot be selfish!—I comprehend not the meaning of this word—Clementina has a very high fortune—Harriet but a very middling one. He cannot be unjust, ungenerous to Clementina—Nor yet selfish—This word confounds me, from a man that says nothing at random!

Well, but breakfast-time is come, while I am busy in self-debatings. I will go down, that I may not seem to affect parade. I will endeavour to see with indifference, him that we have all been admiring and studying for this last fortnight, in such a variety of lights. The christian: the hero: the friend:—Ah, Lucy! the lover of Clementina: the generous kinsman of Lord W–: the modest and delicate benefactor of the Mansfields: the free, gay, raillier of Lady Beauchamp; and, in her, of all our sex's foibles!