CHAPTER XXI I have a volume to write of the adventures of yesterday. In the afternoon—at Berryhill I should have said the evening, for it was almost six o'clock—while Miss Mervyn and I were dressing for the opera, and in high spirits from the expectation of great entertainment and pleasure, we heard a carriage stop at the door, and concluded that Sir Clement Willoughby, with his usual assiduity, was come to attend us to the hay market. But in a few moments, what was our surprise to see our chamber door flung open, and the two Miss Brantons enter the room? They advanced to me with great familiarity, saying, How do you do, cousin? So, we've caught you at the glass. Well, I'm determined to tell my brother of that." Miss Mervyn, who had never before seen them, and could not at first imagine who they were, looked so much astonished that I was ready to laugh myself, till the eldest said, We're come to take you to the opera, Miss. Papa and my brother are below, and we are to call for your grandmama as we go along. I am very sorry, answered I, that you should have taken so much trouble, as I am engaged already. Engaged? Lord Miss, never mind that! cried the youngest. This young lady will make your excuses, I daresay. It's only doing as one will be done by, you know. Indeed, mum," said Miss Mervyn, I shall myself be very sorry to be deprived of Miss Anville's company this evening. Well, Miss, that is not so very good-natured in you," said Miss Branton, considering we only come to give our cousin pleasure. It's no good to us. It's all upon her account. For we came, I don't know how much round about to take her up. I am extremely obliged to you," said I, and very sorry you have lost so much time, but I cannot possibly help it, for I engaged myself without knowing you would call. Lord, what signifies that? said Miss Polly. You're no old maid, and so you didn't be so very formal. Besides, I daresay those you are engaged to aren't half so near related to you as we are. I must beg you not to press me any further, for I assure you it is not in my power to attend you. Why, we came all out of the city on purpose. Besides, your grandmama expects you, and pray, what are we to say to her? Tell her, if you please, that I am much concerned, but that I am pre-engaged. And who, too? demanded the abrupt Miss Branton. To Mrs. Mervin, and a large party. And pray, what are you all going to do, that it would be such a mighty matter for you to come along with us? We are all going to—to the opera. Oh, dear, if that be all, why can't we go together? I was extremely disconcerted at this forward and ignorant behaviour, and yet their rudeness very much lessened my concern at refusing them. Indeed, their dress was such as would have rendered their scheme of accompanying our party impracticable, even if I had desired it. And this, as they did not themselves find it out, I was obliged, in terms the least mortifying I could think of, to tell them. They were very much chagrined, and asked where I should sit. In the pit, answered I. In the pit? repeated Miss Branton. Well, really, I must own. I should never have supposed that my gown was not good enough for the pit. But come, Polly, let's go. If Miss does not think us fine enough for her, why to be sure she may choose? Surprised at this ignorance, I would have explained to them, that the pit at the opera required the same dress as the boxes, but they were so much affronted they would not hear me, and in great displeasure left the room, saying they would not have troubled me, only they thought I should not be proud with my own relations, and that they had at least as good right to my company as strangers. I endeavoured to apologise, and would have sent a long message to Madame Duvall, but they hastened away without listening to me, and I could not follow them downstairs, because I was not dressed. The last words I heard them say were,—well, her grand-mama will be in a fine passion, that's one good thing. Though I was extremely mad at this visit, yet I so heartily rejoiced at their going that I would not suffer myself to think gravely about it. Soon after, Sir Clement actually came, and we all went downstairs. Mrs. Mervyn ordered tea, and we were engaged in a very lively conversation, when the servant announced Madame Duvall, who instantly followed him into the room. Her face was the colour of scarlet, and her eyes sparkled with fury. She came up to me with hasty steps, saying,— So, Miss, you refuse to come to me, do you? And pray, who are you to dare to disobey me? I was quite frightened. I made no answer. I even attempted to rise, and could not but sat still, mute and motionless. Everybody but Miss Mervyn seemed in the utmost astonishment, and the captain, rising and approaching, Madame Duvall, with a voice of authority, said, Why, how now, Mrs. Turkey-cock, what's put you into this here fluster? It's nothing to you, answered she, so you may as well hold your tongue, for I shan't be called to no account by you, I assure you. There you're out, Madame Pury, returned he, for you must know I never suffer anybody to be in a passion in my house but myself. But you shall, cried she, in great rage, for I'll be in as great a passion as ever I please, without asking your leave, so don't give yourself no more errors about it.  And with these words she flung out of the room. I was in such extreme terror, at being dressed and threatened in a manner to which I am so wholly unused, that I almost thought I should have fainted. Don't be alarmed, my love! cried Mrs. Mervyn. But stay where you are, and I will follow Madame Duvall, and try to bring her to reason. Miss Mervyn took my hand, and most kindly endeavoured to raise my spirits. So Clement too approached me with an air so interested in my distress, that I could not but feel myself obliged to him. And taking my other hand, said, For heaven's sake, my dear Madame, compose yourself. Surely the violence of such a wretch ought merely to move your contempt. She can have no right, I imagine, to lay her commands upon you, and I only wish that you would allow me to speak to her. Oh, no! not for the world. Indeed, I believe—I am afraid—I had better follow her. Follow her? Good God, my dear Miss Anvil, would you trust yourself with a madwoman? For what else can you call a creature whose passions are so insolent? No, no, send her word at once to leave the house, and tell her you desire that she will never see you again. Oh, sir, you don't know who you talk of. It would ill become me to send the Madame Duvall such a message. But why? cried he, looking very inquisitive. Why should you scruple to treat her as she deserves? I then found that this aim was to discover the nature of her connection with me, but I felt so much ashamed of my near relationship to her that I could not persuade myself to answer him, and only entreated that he would leave her to Mrs. Mervyn, who just then entered the room. Before she could speak to me, the captain called out, "'Well, goodie, what have you done with Madame French? Is she cooled a little? Cause if she bent, I have just thought of a most excellent device to bring her to.' "'My dear Evelina,' said Mrs. Mervyn, "'I have been vainly endeavouring to appease her. I pleaded your engagement, and promised your future attendance. But I am sorry to say, my love, that I fear her rage will end in a total breach, which I think you would better avoid, if she is any further repressed.' "'Then I will go to her, madame,' cried I, "'and indeed it is now no matter, for I should not be able to recover my spirit sufficiently to enjoy much pleasure anywhere this evening.' So Clement began a very warm expostulation and entreaty, that I would not go, but I begged him to desist, and told him very honestly that if my compliance were not indispensable necessary, I should require no persuasion to stay. He then took my hand to lead me downstairs, but the captain desired him to be quiet, saying he would squire me himself. "'Because,' he added, exultingly rubbing his hand, "'I have a wipe ready for the old lady, which may serve her to chew as she goes along.' We found her in the parlour. "'Oh, you'll come at last, miss, are you? Fine as you give yourself indeed. Muffois! If you hadn't come, you might have stayed, I assure you, and have been a beggar for your pains.' "'Hey, day, madam,' cried the captain, prancing forward with a look of great glee. "'What? And you got out of that there passion yet? Why, then, I'll tell you what to do to cool yourself. Call upon your old friend, Monsayer Slippery, who was with you at Rannala, and give my service to him, and tell him if he sets any store by your health, that I desire he'll give you such another souse as he did before. He'll know what I mean, and I'll warrant you he'll do it for my sake. "'Let him, if he dares,' cried Madame Duvall, "'but I shan't stay to answer you no more.  And so, child, let us leave him to himself.'" "'Harky, madam,' cried the captain, "'you'd best not call names, because, do you see, if you do, I shall make bold to show you the door.' She changed colour, and saying, "'Bardy, I can show it myself,' hurried out of the rum, and I followed her into a hackney-coach. But before we drove off, the captain, looking out of a parlour-window, called out, "'Dear here, madam, don't forget my message to Monsayer.'" He will believe our ride was not the most greeble in the world. Indeed, it would be difficult to say which was least pleased—Madame Duvall or me, though the reasons of our discontent were so different. However, Madame Duvall soon got the start of me, for we had hardly turned out of Queen Anne Street, when a man, running full speed, stopped the coach. He came up to the window, and I saw he was the captain's servant. He had a broad grin on his face, and panted for breath. Madame Duvall demanded his business.  Ha ha ha!'  "'Take that back for your answer, Sira,' cried she, and learn not to grin at your betters another time. Coachman, drive on!' The servant was in a violent passion, and swore terribly, but we were soon outfearing. The rage of Madame Duvall was greater than ever, and she invaded against the captain with such fury that I was even apprehensive she would have returned to his house purposely to reproach him, which he repeatedly threatened to do. Nor would she, I believe, have hesitated a moment, but that, notwithstanding her violence, he has really made afraid of him. When we came to her lodgings, we found all the Brantons in the passage, impatiently waiting for us with the door open. "'Only see, here's Miss,' cried the brother. "'Well, I declare, I thought as much,' said the younger sister. "'Why, Miss,' said Mr. Branton, I think you might as well have come with your cousins at once—it's throwing money in the dirt to pay two coaches for one fare.' "'Lord, Father,' cried the son, make no words about that, for I'll pay for the coach that Miss had.' "'Oh, I know very well,' answered Mr. Branton, that you're always more ready to spend than to earn.' I then interfered and begged that I might myself be allowed to pay the fare, as the expense was incurred upon my account. They all said no, and proposed that the same coach should carry us to the opera. While this past the Miss Brantons were examining my dress, which indeed was very improper for my company, and as I was extremely unwilling to be so conspicuous amongst them, I requested Madame Duvall to borrow a hat or bonnet for me of the people of the house, but she never wears either herself, and thinks them very English and barbarous. Therefore, she insisted that I should go full dressed, as I had prepared myself for the pit, though I made many objections. We were then all crowded into the same carriage, but when we arrived at the opera house, I contrived to pay the coachman. They made a great many speeches, but Mr. Branson's reflection had determined me not to be indebted to him. If I had not been too much chagrined to laugh, I should have been extremely diverted at their ignorance of whatever belongs to an opera. In the first place they could not tell at what door we ought to enter, and we wandered about for some time without knowing which way to turn. They did not choose to apply to me, though I was the only person of the party who had ever been at an opera, because they were unwilling to suppose that their country cousin, as they were pleased to call me, should be better acquainted with any London public place than themselves. I was very indifferent and careless upon this subject, but not a little uneasy at finding that my dress, so different from that of the company to which I belonged, attracted general notice and observation. In a short time, however, we arrived at one of the doorkeeper's bars. Mr. Branson demanded for what part of the house they took money. They answered, the pit, and regarded us all with great earnestness. The son, then advancing, said, Sir, if you please, I beg that I may treat Miss. We'll settle that another time," answered Mr. Branton, and put down a guinea. Two tickets of admission were given to him. Mr. Branton and his turn now stared at the doorkeeper, and demanded what he meant by giving him only two tickets for a guinea.  Half a guinea each! repeated Mr. Branton, why I never heard of such a thing in my life, and pray, sir, how many will they admit? Just as usual, sir, one person each. But one person for half a guinea, why only want to sit in the pit, friend? They had not the ladies better sit in the gallery, sir, for they'll hardly choose to go into the pit with their hats on. Oh, as to that! cried Miss. Branton. If our hats are too high, we'll take them off when we get in. I shan't mind it, for I did my hair on purpose. Another party then approaching, the doorkeeper could no longer attend to Mr. Branton, who, taking up the guinea, told him it should be long enough before he'd see it again, and walked away. The young ladies, in some confusion, expressed their price that their papa should not know that the opera prices, which for their parts, they had read in the papers a thousand times. The price of stocks, said he, is enough for me to see after, and I took it for granted it was the same thing here as at the playhouse. I knew well enough what the price was, said the son, but I would not speak, because I thought perhaps they'd take less, as was such a large party. The sisters both laughed very contemptuously at this idea, and asked him if he'd ever heard of peoples abating anything into public place. I don't know whether I have or not," answered he, but I am sure if they would, you'd like it so much the worse. Very true, Tom," cried Mr. Branton, tell a woman that anything is reasonable, and she'll be sure to hate it. Well, said Miss Polly, I hope that aunt and miss will be of our side, for papa always takes part with Tom. Come, come," cried Madame Duvall, if you stand talking here, we shan't get no place at all. Mr. Branton then inquired the way to the gallery, and when we came to the doorkeeper, demanded what was to pay. The usual price, sir," said the man. Then give me change," cried Mr. Branton, again putting down his guinea. For how many, sir? Why, let's see, for six. For six, sir? Why, you've given me but a guinea. But a guinea? Why, how much would you have? I suppose it is enough a guinea-piece here, too. No, sir, only five shillings. Mr. Branton again took up his unfortunate guinea, and protested he would not submit to know such imposition. I then proposed that we should return home, but Madame Duvall would not consent. And we were conducted by a woman who sells books of the opera to another gallery-door, where after some disputing, Mr. Branton at last paid, and we all went upstairs. Madame Duvall complained very much of the trouble of going so high, but Mr. Branton desired her not to hold the place too cheap.  What a be-sure, said Miss Branton, there's no judging of a place by the outside, else I must need say there's nothing very extraordinary in the staircase. But when we entered the gallery, their amazement and disappointment became general. For a few instance they looked at one another without speaking, and then they all broke silence at once. Lord Papar, exclaimed Miss Polly, why you have brought us to the one shilling gallery. I'll be glad to give you two shillings, though," answered he, to pay. I was never so fooled out of my money before, since the house of my birth, either the doorkeeper's a-naive, or this is the greatest imposition that ever was put upon the public.  Why, it's as high, we shan't see nothing. I thought at the time," said Mr. Branton, that three shillings was an exorbitant price for a place in the gallery, but as we'd been asked so much at the other doors, why I paid it without many words. But then, to be sure, thinks I, it can never be like any other gallery. We shall see some crinkum-crankum, or other, for our money, but I find it's as errant to take in as ever I met with. Why, it's as like the twelve-penny gallery at Drury Lane, cried the sun, as two peas are to one another. I never knew father so bit before. Lord! said Miss Branton, I thought it would have been quite a fine place, all over, I don't know what, and quite done in taste. In this manner they continued to express their dissatisfaction till the curtain drew up, after which their observations were very curious. They made no allowance for the customs, or even for the language of another country, but formed all their remarks upon comparisons with the English theatre. I thought withstanding my vexation at having been forced into a party, so very disagreeable, and that, too, from one so much, so very much the contrary. Yet would they have suffered me to listen, I should have forgotten everything unpleasant, and felt nothing but delight in hearing the sweet voice of Signore Millico, the first singer. But they tormented me with continual talking. What a jabbering they make! cried Mr. Branton. There's no knowing a word they say. Why, what's the reason, they can't as well sing in English? But I suppose the fine folks would not like it, if they could understand it. How unnatural their action is! said the son. Why, now, whoever saw an Englishman put himself in such out-of-the-way postures? For my part, said Miss Polly, I think it's very pretty, only I don't know what it means. Lord! What does that signify? cried a sister. May it one like a thing without being so very particular? You may see that Miss likes it, and I don't suppose she knows more of the matter than we do. A gentleman, soon after, was so obliging as to make rom in the first row for Miss Branton and me. We had no sooner seated ourselves, than Miss Branton exclaimed, Good gracious! Only see! Why, Polly! All the people in the pit are without hats, dressed like anything. Lord! So they are! cried Miss Polly. Well, I never saw the like. It's worth coming to the opera, if one's all nothing else. I was then able to distinguish the happy party I had left, and I saw that Lord Orville had seated himself next to Mrs. Mervin. Sir Clement had his eyes perpetually cast toward the five-chilling gallery, where I supposed he concluded that we were seated. However, before the opera was over, I have reason to believe that he'd discovered me, high and distant as I was from him. Probably he distinguished me by my headdress. At the end of the first act, as the green curtain dropped to prepare for the dance, they imagined that the opera was done, and Mr. Branton expressed great indignation that he had been tricked out of his money with so little trouble. Now, if any Englishman was to do such an impudent thing as this, said he, why, he'd be pelted. But here one of these outlandish gentry made you just what he pleases, and come on and squeak out a song or two, and then pocket your money without further ceremony. However, so determined he was to be dissatisfied, that before the conclusion of the third act, he found still more fault with the opera for being too long, and wondered whether they thought they're singing good enough to serve us for supper. During the symphony of a song of Señor Milicos in the second act, young Mr. Branton said, It's my belief that that fellow is going to sing another song, why there's nothing but singing! I wonder when they'll speak.  But upon turning round, when the song was over, I found that I was the object of general diversion to the whole party, for the Miss Branton's were tittering, and the two gentlemen making signs and faces at me, implying their contempt of my affectation. This discovery determined me to appear as inattentive as themselves, but I was very much provoked at being thus prevented enjoying the only pleasure, which in such a party was within my power. So, Miss, said Mr. Branton, you're quite in the fashion, I see, so you like operas? Well, I'm not so polite, I can't like nonsense, that it be never so much the taste. But pray, Miss, said the son, what makes the fellow look so doleful when he is singing? Probably because the character he performs is in distress. Why, then? I think you might as well let alone singing till he's in better queue. It's out of all nature for a man to be piping when he's in distress. For my part, I never sing but when I'm merry, yet I love a song as well as most people. When the curtain dropped, they all rejoiced. How do you like it? And how do you like it? Passed from one to another with looks of the utmost contempt. As for me, said Mr. Branton, they've caught me once, but if they ever do it again, I'll give them leave to sing me to bedlam for my pains. For such a heap of stuff never did I hear. There isn't one ounce of sense in the whole opera, nothing but one continued squeaking and squaling from beginning to end.  Miss Branton, looking at me, declared that she was not genteel enough to admire it. Miss Polly confessed that, if they would but sing English, she would like it very well. Her brother wished he could raise a riot in the house, because then he might get his money again. And finally, they all agreed that it was monstrous dear. During the last dance, I perceived standing near the gallery-door, Sir Clement Willoughby. I was extremely vexed, and would have given the world to have avoided being seen by him. My chief objection was, from the apprehension that he would hear Miss Branton call me cousin. I fear you will think this London journey has made me grow very proud, but indeed this family is so low-bred and vulgar that I should be equally ashamed of such a connection in the country or anywhere. And really I had already been so much aggrieved that Sir Clement had been a witness of Madame Duvall's power over me, that I could not bear to be exposed to any further mortification. As the seats cleared, by parties going away, Sir Clement approached nearer to us. The Miss Branton's observed with surprise what a fine gentleman was coming to the gallery, and they gave me great reason to expect that they would endeavour to attract his notice, by familiarity with me, whenever he should join us. And so I formed a sort of plan to prevent any conversation. I'm afraid you will think it wrong, and so do I myself now. But at the time I only considered how I might avoid immediate humiliation. As soon as he was within two seats of us, he spoke to me. I am very happy, Miss Anville, to have found you, for the ladies below have each an humble attendant, and therefore I am come to offer my services here." Why then, cried I, not without hesitating, if you please, I will join them. Will you allow me the honour of conducting you?" cried he eagerly, and instantly taking my hand he would have marched away with me, but I turned to Madame Duvall and said, As our party is so large, Madame, if you will give me leave, I will go down to Mrs. Mervin, that I may not crowd you in the coach. And then, without waiting for an answer, I suffered so clement to hand me out of the gallery. Madame Duvall, I doubt not, will be very angry, and so I am with myself now, and therefore I cannot be surprised. But Mr. Branton, I am sure, will easily comfort himself, in having escaped the additional coach-expense of carrying me to Queen Anne Street. As to his daughters, they had no time to speak, but I saw they were in utter amazement. My intention was to join Mrs. Mervin and accompany her home. Sir Clement was in high spirits and good humour, and all the way he went, I was fool enough to rejoice in secret at the success of my plan, nor was it till I got downstairs and amidst the servants, that any difficulty occurred to me of meeting with my friends. I then asked Sir Clement, how should I contrive to acquaint Mrs. Mervin that I had left Madame Duvall? I fear it will be almost impossible to find her," answered he, but you can have no objection to permitting me to see you save home.  This quite startled me. I turned to him hastily, and said that I could not think of going away without Mrs. Mervin. But how can we meet with her? cried he. You will not choose to go into the pitch yourself. I cannot send a servant there, and it is impossible for me to go and leave you alone. The truth of this was indisputable, and totally silenced me. Yet as soon as I could recollect myself, I determined not to go into his chariot, and told him I believed I had best returned to my party upstairs. He would not hear of this, and earnestly entreated me not to withdraw the trust I had reposed in him. While he was speaking, I saw Lord Orville, with several ladies and gentlemen, coming from the pit to passage—unfortunately, he saw me, too—and leaving his company advanced instantly towards me, and with an air and voice of surprise, said, Good God! Do I see Miss Anville? I now most severely felt the folly of my plan, and the awkwardness of my situation. However, I hastened to tell him, though in a hesitating manner, that I was waiting for Mrs. Mervin. But what was my disappointment, when he acquainted me that she was already gone home? I was inexpressibly distressed. To suffer, Lord Orville, to think me satisfied with the single protection of Sir Clement Willoughby, I could not bear. Yet I was more than ever averse to returning to a party which I dreaded his seeing. I stood some moments in suspense, and could not help exclaiming, Good Heaven! What can I do? Why, my dear madam! cried Sir Clement, Should you be thus uneasy? You will reach Queen Anne Street almost as soon as Mrs. Mervin, and I am sure you cannot doubt being as safe. I made no answer, and Lord Orville then said, My coach is here, and my servants are ready to take any commands Miss Anville will honour me with for them. I shall myself go home in a chair, and therefore— How grateful did I feel for a proposal so considerate, and made with so much delicacy! I should gladly have accepted it, had I been permitted, but Sir Clement would not let him even finish his speech. He interrupted him with evident displeasure, and said, My Lord, my own chariot is now at the door. And just then the servant came, and told him the carriage was ready. He begged to have the honour of conducting me to it, and would have taken my hand, but I drew it back, saying, I can't! I can't indeed! Pray, go by yourself, and as to me, let me have a chair. Impossible! cried he with vehemence. I cannot think of trusting you with strange chairmen. I cannot answer it to Mrs. Mervyn. Come, dear madam, we shall be home in five minutes." Again I stood suspended. With what joy would I then have compromised with my pride, to have been once more with Madame Duvall and the Brantons, provided I had not met with Lord Orville? However, I flatter myself that he had not only saw, but pity my embarrassment, for he said in a tone of voice unusually softened. To offer my services in the presence of Sir Clement Willoughby would be superfluous. But I hope I need not assure Miss Anville how happy it would make me to be of the least used to her. I curtsied my thanks. Sir Clement, with great earnestness, pressed me to go, and while I was thus uneasily deliberating what to do, the dance, I suppose, finished, for the people crowded downstairs. Had Lord Orville then repeated his offer, I would have accepted it notwithstanding Sir Clement's repugnance, but I fancy he thought it would be impertinent. In a very few minutes I heard Madame Duvall's voice, as she descended from the gallery. Well! cried I hastily, if I must go—I stopped, but Sir Clement immediately handed me into his chariot, called out Queen Anne Street, and then jumped in himself. Lord Orville, with a bow and a half smile, wished me to good-night. My concern was so great at being seen and left by Lord Orville in so strange a situation, that I should have been best pleased to have remained wholly silent during our ride home, but Sir Clement took care to prevent that. He began by making many complaints of my unwillingness to trust myself with him, and begged to know what could be the reason. This question so much embarrassed me, that I could not tell what to answer, but only said that I was sorry to have taken up so much of his time. Oh, Miss Anvil! cried he, taking my hand. If you knew with what transport I would dedicate to you not only the present, but all the future time allotted to me, you would not injure me by making me such an apology. I could not think of a word to say to this, nor to a great many other equally fine speeches with which he ran on, though I would feign have withdrawn my hand, and made almost continual attempts. But in vain! For he actually grasped it between both his, without any regard to my resistance. Soon after, he said that he believed the coachman was going the wrong way, and he called to his servant, and gave him directions. Then again dressing himself to me, how often—how assiduously have I sought an opportunity of speaking to you without the presence of that brute Captain Mervyn? Fortune has now kindly favoured me with one, and permit me—again, seizing my hand. And permit me to use it in telling you, that I adore you." I was quite thunderstruck at this abrupt and unexpected declaration. For some moments I was silent, but when I recovered from my surprise I said, "'Indeed, sir, if you were determined to make me repent leaving my own party so foolishly, you are very well succeeded.' "'My dearest life!' cried he, "'Is it possible you can be so cruel? Can your nature and your countenance be so totally opposite? Can the sweet bloom upon those charming cheeks, which appears as much the result of good humour as of beauty?' "'Oh, sir!' cried I, interrupting him, "'This is very fine, but I had hoped we had had enough of this sort of conversation at the Rodoto, and I did not expect to had so soon resume it.' What I then said, my sweet reproacher, was the effect of a mistaken, a profane idea, that your understanding held no competition with your beauty. Now that I find you equally incomparable in both, all words, all powers of speech, are too feeble to express the admiration I feel of your excellencies." "'Indeed,' cried I, "'if your thoughts had any connection with your language, you would never suppose that I could give credit to praise so very much above my dessert.' This speech, which I made very gravely, occasioned still stronger protestations, which he continued to pour forth, and I continued to disclaim, till I began to wonder that we were not in Queen Anne Street, and begged he would desire the coachman to drive faster." "'And does this little moment,' cried he, "'which is the first of happiness I have ever known. Does it already appear so very long to you?' "'I am afraid the man has mistaken the way,' answered I, "'or else we should air now have been at our journey's end. I must beg you will speak to him.' "'And can you think me so much my own enemy? If my good genius has inspired the man with the desire of prolonging my happiness, can you expect that I should counteract its indulgence?' I now began to apprehend that he had himself ordered the man to go a wrong way, and I was so much alarmed at the idea that the very instant it occurred to me, I let down the glass, and made a sudden effort to open the chariot door myself, with a view of jumping into the street. But he caught hold of me, exclaiming, "'For heaven's sake, what is the matter?' "'I—I don't know,' cried I, quite out of breath, "'but I am sure the man goes wrong, and if you will not speak to him, I am determined I will get out myself.' "'You amaze me,' answered he, still holding me. "'I cannot imagine what you apprehend. Surely you can have no doubts of my honour.' He drew me towards him as he spoke. I was frightened dreadfully, and could hardly say, "'No, sir, no, none at all. Only Mrs. Mervyn. I think she will be uneasy.' "'Went this alarm, my dearest angel, what can you fear? My life is at your devotion, and can you then doubt my protection?' And so saying, he passionately kissed my hand. "'Never in my whole life have I been so terrified. I broke forcibly from him, and putting my head out of the window, called aloud to the man to stop. Where we then were I know not, but I saw not a human being, or I should have called for help. Sir Clement, with great earnestness, endeavoured to appease and compose me. If you do not intend to murder me, cried I, for mercies, for pity's sake, let me get out. "'Compose your spirits, my dearest life,' cried he, and I will do everything you would have me.' And then he called to the man himself, and bid him make haste to Queen Anne Street.  I made no answer, but kept my head at the window, watching which way he drove, but without any comfort to myself, as I was quite unacquainted with either the right or the wrong. Sir Clement now poured forth abundant protestations of honour, and assurances of respect, in treating my pardon for having offended me, and beseeching my good opinion, but I was quite silent, having too much apprehension to make reproaches, and too much anger to speak without. In this manner we went through several streets, till at last, to my great terror, he suddenly ordered the man to stop, and said, "'Miss Anvil, we are now within twenty yards of your house, but I can not bear to part with you, till you generously forgive me for the events you have taken, and promise not to make it known to the Mervins.' I hesitated between fear and indignation. Your reluctance to speak redoubles my contrition for having displeased you, since it shows the reliance I might have on a promise which you will not give without consideration. I am very, very much distressed," cried I. "'You ask a promise which you must be sensible, I ought not to grant, and yet dare not refuse.' "'Drive on,' cried he to the coachman, "'Miss Anvil, I will not compel you. I will exact no promise, but trust wholly to your generosity.' This rather softened me, which advantage he no sooner received, than he determined to avail himself of, for he flung himself on his knees, and pleaded with so much submission that I was really obliged to forgive him, because his humiliation made me quite ashamed, and after that he would not let me rest till I gave him my word, that I would not complain of him to Mrs. Mervin. My own folly and pride, which had put me in his power, were pleas which I could not but attend to in his favour. However, I shall take very particular care, never to be again alone with him. When at last we arrived at our house, I was so overjoyed, that I should certainly have pardoned him then, if I had not to before, as he handed me up the stairs. He scolded his servant aloud, and very angrily, for having gone so much out of the way. Miss Mervin ran up to meet me, and who should I see behind her, but Lord Orville? All my joy now vanished, and gave place to shame and confusion, for I could not endure that he should know how long a time, Sir Clement, and I had been together, since I was not at liberty to assign any reason for it. They all expressed great satisfaction at seeing me, and said they had been extremely uneasy and surprised that I was so long coming home, as they had heard from Lord Orville that I was not with Madame Duvall. Sir Clement, in an affected passion, said that his booby of a servant had misunderstood his orders, and was driving us to the upper end of Piccadilly. For my part, I only coloured, for though I would not forfeit my word, I yet disdained to confirm a tale in which I had myself no belief. Lord Orville, with great politeness, congratulated me, that the troubles of the evening had so happily ended, and said that he had found it impossible to return home, before he inquired after my safety. In a very short time he took his leave, and Sir Clement followed him, as soon as they were gone, Miss Mervin, though with great softness, blamed me for having quitted Madame Duvall. I assured her, and with truth, that for the future I would be more prudent. The adventures of the evening so much disconcerted me, that I could not sleep all night. I am under the most cruel apprehensions, lest Lord Orville should suppose my being on the gallery stares with Sir Clement was a concerted scheme, and even that our continuing so long together in his chariot was with my approbation, since I did not say a word on the subject, nor express my dissatisfaction at the coachman's pretended blunder. Yet his coming hither to wait our arrival, though it seems to imply some doubt, shows also some anxiety. Indeed, Miss Mervin says, that he appeared extremely anxious, nay, uneasy, and impatient for my return. If I did not fear to flatter myself, I should think it not impossible, but that he had a suspicion of Sir Clement's design, and was therefore concerned for my safety. What a long letter is this! However, I shall not write many more from London, for the captain said this morning that he would leave town on Tuesday next. Time do all will dine here to-day, and then she is to be told his intention. I am very much amazed that she accepted Miss Mervin's invitation, as she was in such wrath yesterday. I fear that to-day I shall myself be the principal object of her displeasure, but I must submit patiently, for I cannot defend myself. Her dear my dear sir, should this letter be productive of any uneasiness to you, more than ever shall I repent the heedless imprudence which it recites." End of Letter XXI. Letter XXII of Evelina. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. Evelina by Fanny Burney. Letter XXII. Evelina in continuation. Monday morning, April 18. Mrs. Mervin has just communicated to me an anecdote concerning Lord Orville, which has much surprised, half pleased, and half pained me. While they were sitting together during the opera, he told her that he had been greatly concerned at the impertinence which the young lady under her protection had suffered from Mr. Lovell, but that he had the pleasure of assuring her, she had no future disturbance to apprehend from him. Mrs. Mervin, with great eagerness, begged he would explain himself, and said she hoped he had not thought so insignificant an affair worthy his serious attention. "'There is nothing,' answered he, which requires more immediate notice than impertinence, for it ever encroaches when it is tolerated." He then added that he believed he ought to apologize for the liberty he had taken in interfering, but that, as he regarded himself in the light of a party concerned, from having had the honour of dancing with Miss Anville, he could not possibly reconcile to himself a patient neutrality. He then proceeded to tell her that he had waited upon Mr. Lovell the morning after the play, that the visit had proved an amicable one, but the particulars were neither entertaining nor necessary. He only assured her, Miss Anville might be perfectly easy, since Mr. Lovell had engaged his honour never more to mention, or even to hint at what had passed at Mrs. Stanley's assembly. Mrs. Mervyn expressed her satisfaction at this conclusion, and thanked him for his polite attention to her young friend. "'It would be needless,' said he, to request that this affair may never transpire, since Mrs. Mervyn cannot but see the necessity of keeping it inviolably secret. But I thought it encumbered upon me, as the young lady is under your protection, to assure both you and her of Mr. Lovell's future respect. And I known of this visit previous to Lord Orville's making it, what dreadful uneasiness would it have cost me? Yet that he should so much interest himself in securing me from offence, gives me, I must own, an internal pleasure, greater than I can express. For I feared he had too contemptuous an opinion of me, to take any trouble upon my account. Though after all this interference might rather be to satisfy his own delicacy, than from thinking well of me. But how cool! how quiet his true courage! Who, from seeing Lord Orville at the play, would have imagined his resentment would have hazarded his life? Yet his displeasure was evident, though his real bravery and his politeness equally guarded him from entering into any discussion in our presence. Madame Duvall, as I expected, was most terribly angry yesterday. She scolded me, for, I believe, two hours, on account of having left her, and protested she had been so much surprised at my going, without giving her time to answer, that she hardly knew whether she was awake or asleep. But she assured me that if I ever did so again, she would never more take me into public. And she expressed an equal degree of displeasure against Sir Clement, because he had not even spoken to her, and because he was always of the captain's side in an argument. The captain, as bound in honour, warmly defended him, and then followed a dispute in the usual style. After dinner, Mrs. Mervyn introduced the subject of our leaving London. Madame Duvall said she would stay a month or two longer. The captain told her she was welcome, but that he and his family should go into the country on Tuesday morning. A most disagreeable scene followed. Madame Duvall insisted upon keeping me with her. But Mrs. Mervyn said, that as I was actually engaged on a visit to Lady Howard, who had only consented to my leaving her for a few days, she could not think of returning without me. Perhaps if the captain had not interfered, the good breeding and mildness of Mrs. Mervyn might have had some effect upon Madame Duvall. But he passes no opportunity of provoking her. And therefore made so many gross and rude speeches, all of which she retorted, that in conclusion she vowed she would sooner go to law in right of her relationship, and that I should be taken away from her. I heard this account from Mrs. Mervyn, who was so kindly considerate as to give me a pretence for quitting the rum, as soon as this dispute began, lest Madame Duvall should refer to me, and insist on my obedience. The final result of the conversation was, that to soften matters for the present, Madame Duvall should make one in the party to Howard Grove, whither we are positively to go next Wednesday. And though we are none of us satisfied with this plan, we know not how to form a better. Mrs. Mervyn is now writing to Lady Howard, to excuse bringing this unexpected guest, and to prevent the disagreeable surprise which must otherwise attend her reception. This dear lady seems eternally studying my happiness and advantage. Tonight we go to the Pantheon, which is the last diversion we shall have take of in London, for to-morrow. This moment, my dearest sir, I have received your kind letter. If you thought us too dissipated the first week, I almost fear to know what you will think of us this second. However, the Pantheon this evening will probably be the last public place which I shall ever see. The assurance of your support and protection in regard to Madame Duvall, though what I never doubted, excites my utmost gratitude. How, indeed, cherished under your roof, the happy object of your constant indulgence, how could I have borne to become the slave of her tyrannical humours? Pardon me that I speak so hardly of her. But whenever the idea of passing my days with her occurs to me, the comparison which naturally follows, takes from me all that forbearance which, I believe, I owe her. You are already displeased with Sir Clement. To be sure, then, his behaviour after the opera will not make his peace with you. Indeed the more I reflect upon it, the more angry I am. I was entirely in his power, and it was cruel in him to cause me so much terror. Oh, my dearest sir, were I but worthy the prayers and the wishes you offer for me, the utmost ambition of my heart would be fully satisfied. But I greatly fear you will find me, now that I am out of the reach of your assisting prudence, more weak and imperfect than you could have expected. I have not now time to write another word, for I must immediately hasten to dress for the evening. End of LETTER XXII. Letter XXIII of Evelina. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. Evelina by Fanny Burney. Letter XXIII. Evelina in Continuation. Queen Anne Street, Tuesday, April 19. There is something to me half-melancholy in writing an account of our last adventures in London. However, as this day is merely appropriated to packing and preparations for our journey, and as I shall shortly have no more adventures to write, I think I may as well complete my town journal at once, and when you have it all together, I hope, my dear sir, you will send me your observations and thoughts upon it, to Howard Grove. Not eight o'clock we went to the Pantheon. I was extremely struck with the beauty of the building, which greatly surpassed whatever I could have expected or imagined. Yet it has more the appearance of a chapel, than of a place of diversion. And though I was quite charmed with the magnificence of the room, I felt that I could not be as gay and thoughtless there, as at Ranala. For there is something in it which rather inspires awe, and solemnity, than mirth and pleasure. However, perhaps it may only have this effect upon such a novice as myself. I should have said, that our party consisted only of Captain, Mrs, and Miss Mervyn, as Madame Duvall spent the day in the city, which I own I could not lament. There was a great deal of company, but the first person we saw was Sir Clement Willoughby. He addressed us with his usual ease, and joined us for the whole evening. I felt myself very uneasy in his presence, for I could not look at him, nor hear him speak without recollecting the chariot adventure. But to my great amazement, I observed that he looked at me without the least apparent discomposure, though certainly he ought not to think of his behaviour without blushing. I really wish I had not forgiven him, and then he could not have ventured to speak to me any more. There was an exceeding good concert, but too much talking to hear it well. Indeed, I am quite astonished to find how little music is attended to in silence, for there everybody seems to admire, hardly anybody listens. We did not see Lord Orville till we went into the tea-room, which is large, low, and underground, and serves merely as a foil to the apartments above. He then sat next to us. He seemed to belong to a large party, chiefly of ladies, but among the gentlemen attending them, I perceived Mr. Lovell. I was extremely a resolute whether or not I ought to make any acknowledgments to Lord Orville for his generous conduct in securing me from the future impertinence of that man. And I thought that, as he had seemed to allow Mrs. Mervyn to acquaint me, though no one else of the measures which he had taken, he might perhaps suppose be ungrateful if silent. However, I might have spared myself the trouble of deliberating, as I never once had the shadow of an opportunity of speaking unheard by a suclement. On the contrary, he was so exceedingly officious and forward, that I could not say a word to anybody, but insistently, he bent his head forward, with an air of profound attention, as if I had addressed myself wholly to him, and yet I never once looked at him, and would not have spoken to him on any account. Indeed, Mrs. Mervyn herself, though unacquainted with the behaviour of suclement after the opera, says it is not right for a young woman to be seen so frequently in public with the same gentleman, and if our stay in town was to be lengthened, she would endeavour to represent to the captain the impropriety of allowing his constant attendance, for suclement, with all his easiness, could not be so eternally of our parties, if the captain was less fond of his company. At the same table with Lord Orville set a gentleman—I call him so only because he was at the same table—who, almost from the moment I was seated, fixed his eyes steadfastly on my face, and never once removed them to any other object during tea-time, notwithstanding my dislike of his staring, must, I am sure, have been very evident. I was quite surprised that a man whose boldness was so offensive could have gained admission into a party of which Lord Orville made one, for I naturally concluded him to be some low-bred, uneducated man, and I thought my idea was indubitably confirmed when I heard him say to suclement Willoughby, in an audible whisper, which is a mode of speech very distressing, and disagreeable to bystanders, for heaven's sake, Willoughby, who is that lovely creature? But what was my amazement, when listening attentively for the answer, though my head was turned another way, I heard suclement say, I am sorry, I cannot inform your lordship, but I am ignorant myself. Lordship! How extraordinary! That a nobleman accustomed in all probability to the first rank of company in the kingdom, from his earliest infancy, can possibly be deficient in good manners, however faulty in morals and principles, even suclement Willoughby appeared modest in comparison with this person. During tea a conversation was commenced upon the times, fashions, and public places, in which the company of both tables joined. It began by suclement's inquiring of Miss Mervyn and of me, if the Pantheon had answered our expectations. We both readily agreed that it had greatly exceeded them. I, to be sure," said the captain,—why, you don't suppose they'd confess if they didn't like it, do you? Whatever's the fashion they must like, of course, or else I'd be bound for it, they'd own, that there never was such a dull place as this here invented. And has, then, this building?—said Lord Orville,—no merit that may serve to lessen your censure. Will not your eye, sir, speak something in its favour? I," cried the Lord,—I don't know his name—and is there any eye here, that can find pleasure in looking at dead walls or statues, when such heavenly living objects as I now see demand all their admiration? Oh, certainly," said Lord Orville,—the lifeless symmetry of architecture, however beautiful the design and proportion, no man would be so mad as to put in competition with the animated charms of nature. But when, as to-night, the eye may be regaled at the same time, and in one view, with all the excellence of art and all the perfection of nature, I cannot think that either suffer by being seen together. I grant, my Lord," said Sir Clement,—that the cool eye of an impassioned philosophy may view both with equal attention and equal safety. But where the heart is not so well guarded, it is apt to interfere, and render even to the eye all objects but one incipid and uninteresting. I, I," cried the captain,—you may talk what you will of your eye here and your eye there, and for the matter of that, to be sure you have two, but we all know they both squint one way. Far be it from me, said Lord Orville, to dispute the magnetic power of beauty, which irresistibly draws and attracts whatever has soul and sympathy, and I am happy to acknowledge, that though we now have no gods to occupy a mansion professedly built for them, yet we have secured their better halves, for we have goddesses to whom we all most willingly bow down. And then, with the very droll air, he made a profound reverence to the ladies. They'd need to be goddesses with a vengeance, said the captain,—for their mortal dear to look at. How some ever I should be glad to know what you can see in ere a face among them that's worth half a guinea for a sight. Half a guinea? exclaimed that same lord. I would give half I am worth for a sight of only one, provided I make my own choice. And prithee, how can money be better employed than in the service of fine women? If the ladies of his own party can pardon the captain's speech, said Sir Clement, I think he has a fair claim to the forgiveness of all. Then you depend very much, as I doubt not, but you may," said Lord Orville, upon the general sweetness of the sex, put as to the ladies of the captain's party, they may easily pardon, for they cannot be hurt. But they must have a devilish good conceit of themselves, though," said the captain, to believe all that. How some ever, whether or no, I should be glad to be told by some of you, who seem to be knowing in them things, what kind of diversion can be found in such a place as this here, for one who has had, long ago, his full of face-hunting? Everybody laughed, but nobody spoke. Why, look you there now," continued the captain, "'You're all at a dead stand. Not a man among you can answer that their question. Why, then? I must make bold to conclude that you all come here for no manner of purpose, but to stare at one another's pretty faces. Though for the matter of that, half of them are plaguey-ugly, and as to other half, I believe it's none of God's manufactory." "'What the ladies may come hither for, sir,' said Mr. Lovell, stroking his ruffles and looking down. It would ill become us to determine, but as to we men, doubtless, we can have no other view than to admire them." "'If I bent mistaken,' cried the captain, looking earnestly in his face, "'you are that same person we saw at love for love to the night. Bent you?' Mr. Lovell bowed." "'Why, then, gentlemen,' continued he with a loud laugh, "'I must tell you a most excellent good joke. When all was over, as sure as you're alive, he asked what the play was. Ha, ha, ha!' "'Sir,' said Mr. Lovell, colouring, "'if you were as much used to town life as I am, which I presume is not precisely the case, I fancy you would not find so much diversion from a circumstance so common.'" "'Common?' "'What? Is it common?' repeated the captain. "'Why, then, for George, such chaps are more fit to be sent to school, and well-disciplined with a cat and nine tails, than to poke their heads into a play-house. Why, a play is the only thing left nowadays that has a grain of sense in it. For as to all the rest of your public places, d.c., if they were all put together, I wouldn't give that for them,' snapping his fingers. And now, we're talking of them sorts of things, there's your operas, I should like to know now what any of you can find to say for them." Lord Orville, who was most able to have answered, seemed by no means to think the captain worthy in argument, upon a subject concerning which he had neither knowledge nor feeling, but turning to us, he said, "'The ladies are silent, and we seem to have engrossed the conversation to ourselves, in which we are much more our own enemies than theirs. But,' addressing himself to Miss Mervyn and me, "'I am most desirous to hear the opinions of these young ladies, to whom all public places must, as yet, be new. We both, and with eagerness, declared that we had received as much, if not more pleasure, at the opera, than anywhere. But we had better have been silent, for the captain, quite displeased, said, "'What signifies asking them girls? Do you think they know their own minds yet? Ask them after anything that's called diversion, and you're sure they'll say it's vastly fine. They are a set of parrots, and speak by rote, but they all say the same thing. But ask them how they like making puddings and pies, and I'll warrant you your posum. As to them operas, I desire I may hear no more of your liking such nonsense, and ask for you, moll, to his daughter.  There are fools enough in the world, without your adding to their number. I'll have no daughter of mine affect them sort of megrums. It's a shame they aren't put down, and if I had my will, there's not a magistrate in this town but should be knocked on the head for suffering them. If you've a mind to praise anything, why you may praise a play, and welcome, for I like it myself." This reproof effectually silenced us both for the rest of the evening. Nay, indeed, for some minutes it seemed to silence everybody else, till Mr. Lovell, not willing to lose an opportunity of returning the captain's sarcasm, said, Why really, sir, it is but natural to be most pleased with what is most familiar, and I think of all our diversions there is not one so much in common between us and the country as a play, not a village but has its barns and comedians, and shares for the stage business, why it may be pretty equally done anywhere, and even in regard to us, and the canine, confined as we all are within the semi-circle of a theatre, there is no place where the distinction is less obvious. While the captain seemed considering for Mr. Lovell's meaning, Lord Orville, probably with a view to prevent his finding it, changed the subject to Cox's Museum, and asked what he thought of it. I think," said he, why I think is how it isn't worth thinking about. I like no such gem-cracks, it is only fit in my mind for monkeys, though for all I know they too might turn up their noses at it. May we ask your lordship's own opinion?" said Mrs. Mervin. The mechanism, answered he, is wonderfully ingenious. I am sorry it has turned to no better account, but its purport is so frivolous, so very remote from all aim at instruction or utility, that the sight of so fine a show leaves a regret on the mind, that so much work, and so much ingenuity, should not be better bestowed. The truth is, said the captain, that in all this huge town so full as it is of folks of all sorts, there in so much as one public place, besides the play-house, were a man, that's to say, a man who was a man, ought not to be shamed to show his face. To the day, they got me to a redotto, but I believe it will be long enough before they get me to another. I knew no more what to do with myself, than if my ship's company had been metamorphosed into Frenchmen. Then again, there's your famous ranala, that you make such a fuss about. Why, what a dull place is that? It's the worst of all. Ranala, dull! Ranala, dull! was echoed from mouth to mouth, and all the ladies, as if of one accord, regarded the captain with looks of the most ironical contempt. As to Ranala, said Mr. Lovell, most indubitably, though the price is plebeian, it is by no means adapted to the plebeian state. It requires a certain acquaintance with high life, and, and, and something of, of, d'en vrai goût, to be rarely sensible of its merit. Those whose—whose connections, and so forth, are not among les gens comme eule four, can feel nothing but en nous, at such a place as Ranala. Ranala! cried Lord. Oh! it is the divinest place, under heaven, or indeed, for ought I know. Oh! you creature! cried a pretty but affected young lady, patting him with her fan. You shan't talk so. I know what you are going to say, but positively I won't sit by you, if you're so wicked. And how can one sit by you, and be good? said he, when only to look at you is enough to make one wicked, or wish to be so. Fie, my lord! retanchi! You really are insufferable! I don't think I shall speak to you again these seven years. What a metamorphosis! cried Lord Orville! Should you make a patriarch of his lordship? Seven years! said he. Dear madam, be contented with telling me you will not speak to me after seven years, and I will endeavour to submit. Oh! very well, my lord! answered she. Pray, date, the end of us speaking to each other as early as you please, I'll promise to agree to your time. You know, my dear madam! said he, sipping his tea. You know I only live in your sight. Oh, yes, my lord, I have long known that, but I begin to fare we shall be too late for Rannola this evening. No, no, madam! said Mr. Lovell, looking at his watch. It is, but just past ten. No more! cried she. Oh! then we shall do very well! All the ladies now started up, and declared they had no time to lose. Why, what the devil! cried the captain, leaning forward with both his arms on the table. Are you going to Rannola at this time of night? The ladies looked at one another and smiled. To Rannola! cried lord. Yes, and I hope you are going too, for we cannot possibly excuse these ladies. I go to Rannola. If I do, I'll be— Rannola now stood up, and the stranger lord, coming round to me, said, You go, I hope. No, my lord, I believe not. No, you cannot. Must not be so barbarous. And he took my hand, and ran on, saying such fine speeches and compliments, that I might almost have supposed myself a goddess, and him a pagan paying me adoration. As soon as I possibly could, I drew back my hand, but he frequently in the course of conversation contrived to take it again, though it was extremely disagreeable to me, and the more so, as I saw that lord Orville had his eyes fixed upon us, with the gravity of attention that made me uneasy. And surely, my dear sir, it was a great liberty in this lord, notwithstanding his rank, to treat me so freely. As to Seclement, he seemed in misery. They all endeavored to prevail with the captain to join the Rannola party, and this lord told me in a low voice, that it was tearing his heart out to go without me. During this conversation, Mr. Lovell came forward, and, assuming a look of surprise, made me a bow, and inquired how I did, protesting upon his honour that he had not seen me before, or would have sooner paid his respects to me. Though his politeness was evidently constrained, yet I was very glad to be thus assured of having nothing more to fear from him. The captain, far from listening to their persuasions of accompanying them to Rannola, was quite in a passion at the proposal, and vowed he would sooner go to the black hole in Calcutta. "'But,' said lord, if the ladies will take that tea at Rannola, you may depend upon our seeing them safe home, for we shall be proud of the honour of attending them." "'Maybe so,' said the captain, "'but I'll tell you what, if one of these places bent enough for them to-night, why, to-morrow, they shall go to nearer one.'" We instantly declared ourselves ready to go home. "'It is not for yourselves that we petition,' said lord. "'But for us, if you have any charity, you will not be so cruel as to deny us. We only beg you to prolong our happiness for a few minutes. The favour is but a small one for you to grant, though so greater one for us to receive."  They'll take it all for gospel. As to Maul, why, she's well enough, but nothing extraordinary, though perhaps you may persuade her that her pug knows is all the fashion, and as to the other, why, she's good white and red to be sure, but what of that? I'll warrant she'll mould her away as fast as her neighbours." "'Is there,' cried lord, another man in this place, who, seeing such objects, could make such a speech?' "'As to that there,' returned the captain, "'I don't know whether there be or no, and to make free I don't care, for I shan't go for to model myself by any of these fair-weather chaps, who dare not so much as say their souls or their own, and for what I know, no more they bent. I'm almost as much ashamed of my countrymen as if I was a Frenchman, and I believe in my heart therein to pin to choose between them, and before long we shall hear the very sailors talking that lingo, and see nair a swabber without a bag and a sword." "'Well, Pond-Honor,' cried Mr. Lovell, "'you gentlemen of the ocean have a most severe way of judging.'" "'Sever? Fog, George, that is impossible, for to cut them at a short, the men, as they call themselves, are no better than monkeys, and as to the women, why they are mere dolls. So now you've got my opinion of the subject, and I so wish you good night.'" The ladies, who were very impatient to be gone, made their curtsies and tripped away, followed by all the gentlemen of their party, except the Lord before mentioned, and Lord Orville, who stayed to make inquiries of Mrs. Mervyn concerning our leaving town, and then saying with his usual politeness, something civil to each of us, with the very grave air he quitted us. Lord remained some minutes longer, which he spent in making a profusion of compliments to me, by which he prevented my hearing distinctly what Lord Orville said, to my great vexation, especially as he looked, I thought so at least, as if displeased at his particularity of behaviour to me. In going to an outward rum, to wait for the carriage, I walked and could not possibly avoid it, between this nobleman and Sir Clement Willoughby, and when the servant and the coach stopped the way, though the latter offered me his hand, which I should much have preferred, this same Lord, without any ceremony, took mine himself, and Sir Clement, with a look extremely provoked, conducted Mrs. Mervyn. In all ranks and all stations of life, how strangely do characters and manners differ? Lord Orville, with a politeness which knows no intermission, and makes no distinction, is as unassuming and modest as if he had never mixed with the great, and was totally ignorant of every qualification he possesses. This other Lord, though lavish of compliments and fine speeches, seems to me an entire stranger to real good breeding. Whoever strikes his fancy engrosses his whole attention. He is forward and bold, has an air of haughtiness towards men, and a look of libertinism towards women, and his conscious quality seems to have given him a freedom in his way of speaking to either sex, that is very little short of rudeness. When we returned home we were all loath spirited. The evening's entertainment had displeased the captain, and his displeasure, I believed, has concerted us all. And here I thought to have concluded my letter, but to my great surprise, just now we had a visit from Lord Orville. He called, he said, to pay his respects to us before we left town, and made many inquiries concerning our return. And when Mrs. Mervyn told him we were going into the country without any view of again quitting it, he expressed concern in such terms, so polite, so flattering, so serious, that I could hardly forbear being sorry for myself. Right to go immediately to Berry Hill, I am sure I should feel nothing but joy. But now we are joined by this captain, and Madame DuVal. I must own I expect very little pleasure at Howard Grove. Before Lord Orville went, Sir Clement Willoughby called. He was more grave than I had ever seen him, and made several attempts to speak to me in a low voice, and to assure me that his regret upon the occasion of our journey was entirely upon my account, but I was not in spirits, and could not bear to be teased by him. However, he has so well paid his court to Captain Mervyn, that he gave him a very hearty invitation to the Grove. At this he brightened, and just then Lord Orville took leave. No doubt, but he was disgusted at this ill-timed, ill-bred partiality. For surely it was very wrong to make an invitation before Lord Orville, in which he was not included. I was so much chagrined, that as soon as he went, I left the room, and I shall not go downstairs, till Sir Clement is gone. Lord Orville cannot but observe his assiduous endeavours to ingratiate himself into my favour, and does not this extravagant civility of Captain Mervyn give him reason to suppose that it meets with our general approbation. I cannot think upon this subject without inexpressible uneasiness, and yet I can think of nothing else. Adieu, my dearest Sir, pray right to me immediately. How many long letters has this one short fortnight produced? More than I may probably ever write again. I fear I shall have tired you with reading them. But you will now have time to rest, for I shall find but little to say in future. And now, most honoured Sir, with all the follies and imperfections which I have thus faithfully recounted, can you, with unabated kindness, suffer me to sign myself, your dutiful and most affectionate, Evelina? End of Letter 23. Letter 24 of Evelina. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are on the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ed Mead. Evelina by Fanny Burney, Letter 24, from Mr. Velars to Evelina. Mary Hill, April 22. How much do I rejoice that I can again address my letters to Howard Grove? My Evelina would have grieved had she known the anxiety in my mind during her residence in the great world. My apprehensions have been inexpressibly alarming, and your journal, at once exciting and relieving my fears, has almost wholly occupied me since the time of your dating it from London. Sir Clement Willoughby must be an artful, designing man. I am extremely irritated at his conduct. The passion he pretends for you has neither sincerity nor honor. The manner and the opportunities he has chosen to declare it are bordering upon insult. His unworthy behavior after the opera convinces me that had not your vehemence frightened him, Queen Anne Street would have been the last place whether he would have ordered his chariot. O my child, how thankful I am for your escape.  The noblemen you met at the Pantheon, bold and forward as you describe him to be, gives me no apprehension. A man who appears so openly licentious, and who makes his attack with so little regard to decorum, is one who, to a mind such as my avalinas, can never be seen but with the disgust which his manners ought to excite. But Sir Clement, though he seeks occasion to give real offense, contrives to avoid all appearance of intentional evil. He is far more dangerous, because more artful, but I am happy to observe that he seems to have made no impression upon your heart, and therefore a very little care and prudence may secure you from those designs which I fear he has formed. Lord Orville appears to be of a better order of beings. His spirited conduct to the meanly impertinent level, and his anxiety for you after the opera, prove him to be a man of sense and feeling. Doubtless he thought there was much reason to tremble for your safety while exposed to the power of Sir Clement, and he acted with a regard to real honor that will always incline me to think well of him, in so immediately equating the Mervyn family with your situation. Many men of his age, from a false and pretended delicacy to a friend, would have quietly pursued their own affairs, and thought it more honorable to leave an unsuspecting young creature to the mercy of a libertine than to risk his displeasure by taking measures for her security. Your evident concern at leaving London is very natural, and yet it afflicts me. I ever dreaded your being too much pleased with a life of dissipation, which youth in vivacity render but too alluring, and I almost regret the consent for your journey which I had not the resolution to withhold. Alas, my child, the artfulness of your nature and the simplicity of your education alike unfit you for the thorny paths of the great and busy world. The supposed obscurity of your birth and situation makes you liable to a thousand disagreeable adventures, not only my views, but my hopes for your future life have ever centered in the country. Shall I own to you that, however I may differ from Captain Mervyn in other respects, yet my opinion of the town, its manners, inhabitants, and diversions is much upon a level with his own? Indeed, it is the general harbor of fraud and folly, of duplicity and of impertinence, and I wish few things more fervently than that you may have taken the lasting leave of it. Remember, however, that I only speak in regard to a public and dissipated life. In private families we may doubtless find as much goodness, honesty, and virtue in London as in the country. If contented with the retired station, I still hope I shall live to see my avalina the ornament of her neighborhood, and the pride and delight of her family, and giving and receiving joy from such society as may best deserve for affection, and employing herself in such useful and innocent occupations as may secure and merit the tenderest love of her friends and the worthiest satisfaction of her own heart. Such are my hopes and such have been my expectations. Disappoint them not, my beloved child, but share me with a few lines that may assure me this one short fortnight spent in town has not undone the work of seventeen years spent in the country. VILLARS. END OF LETTER XXIV. No, my dear sir, no, the work of seventeen years remains such as it was ever unworthy your time and your labour, but not more so now, at least I hope not, than before that fortnight which has so much alarmed you. And yet I must confess, that I am not half so happy here at present as I was ere I went to town, but the change is in the place, not in me. Captain Mervyn and Madame DuVall have ruined Towered Grove. The harmony that reigned here is disturbed. Our schemes are broken. Our way of life is altered, and our comfort is destroyed. But do not suppose London to be the source of these evils, for had our excursion been anywhere else, so disagreeable in addition to our household, must have caused the same change at our return. I was sure you would be displeased with Sir Clement Willoughby, and therefore I am by no means surprised at what you say of him. But for Lord Orville, I must own I had greatly feared that my weak and imperfect account would not have procured him the good opinion which he so well deserves, and which I am delighted to find you seem to have of him. Oh, sir, could I have done justice to the merit of which I believe him possessed? Could I have painted him to you such as he appeared to me? Then indeed you would have had some idea of the claim which he has to your approbation. After the last letter which I wrote in town, nothing more passed previous to our journey hither, except a very violent quarrel between Captain Mervin and Madame Duvall. As the captain intended to travel on horseback, he had settled that we four females should make use of his coach. Madame Duvall did not come to Queen Anne's Street till the carriage had waited some time at the door, and then, attended by Monsieur Dubois, she made her appearance. The captain, impatient to be gone, would not suffer them to enter the house, but insisted that we should immediately get into the coach. We obeyed, but were no sooner seated than Madame Duvall said. Come, Monsieur Dubois, these girls can make very good room for you. Sit close, our children. Mrs. Mervin looked quite confused, and Monsieur Dubois, after making some apologies about crowding us, actually got into the coach on the side with Miss Mervin and me. But no sooner was he seated than the captain, who had observed this transaction very quietly, walked up to the coach's door, saying, What? Neither with your leave, nor by your leave? Monsieur Dubois seemed rather shocked, and began to make abundance of excuses, but the captain neither understood nor regarded him, and said very roughly, Looky, Montseer, this here may be a French fashion for all I know, but give and take is fair in all nations, and so now, DC, I'll make bold to show you an English one. And then, seizing his wrist, he made him jump out of the coach. Monsieur Dubois instantly put his hand upon his sword, and threatened to resent this indignity. The captain, holding up his stick, bid him draw at his peril. Mrs. Mervin, greatly alarmed, got out of the coach, and standing between them, entreated her husband to re-enter the house. None of your clack! cried he angrily.  Meantime, Madame Dubois called out to Monsieur Dubois, Hey, let it be, my friend, don't correct it. It's a villain-bet who doesn't want the pain. Monsieur le capitaine, cried Monsieur Dubois, Would you like to ask for forgiveness?  I thought as much. I thought you'd come, too. So you have lost your relish for an English salutation, have you? Strutting up to him with looks of defiance. A crowd was now gathering, and Mrs. Mervin again besought her husband to go into the house. Why, what a plague is the woman afraid of! Did you ever know a Frenchman that could not take in a front? I warrant Montseer knows what he is about. Don't you, Montseer? Monsieur Dubois, not understanding him, only said, Plais-t-il, monsieur? No, nor dish-mean, either, answered the captain. But be that as it may, what signifies our parlaying here? If you have anything to propose, speak at once. If not, why let us go on our journey without more ado? Par bleu, je n'entends rien moi, cried Monsieur Dubois, shrugging up his shoulders and looking very dismal. Mrs. Mervin then advanced to him, and said in French that she was sure the captain had not any intention to affront him, and begged he would desist from a dispute which could only be productive of mutual misunderstanding, as neither of them knew the language of the other. This sensible remonstrance had the desired effect, and Monsieur Dubois, making a bow to every one except the captain, very wisely gave up the point, and took leave. We then hoped to proceed quietly on our journey, but the turbulent captain would not yet permit us. He approached Madame Dubois with an exulting air, and said, Why, how's this, madame? What has your champion deserted you? Why, I thought you told me that you old, gentle women had it all your own way among them French sparks. As to that, sir, answered she, it's not of no consequence what you thought, for a person who can behave in such a low way may think what he pleases for me. For I shan't mind. Why, then, mistress, since you must needs make so free? cried he. Pleased to tell me the reason you took the liberty for to ask any of your followers into my coach without my leave? Answer me to that. Why, then, pray, sir, return she. Tell me the reason why you took the liberty to treat the gentleman in such an unpolite way, as to take and pull him neck and heels out. I am sure he hadn't done nothing to affront you, nor nobody else, and I don't know what's great hurt he would have done you, by just sitting still in the coach. He would not have eaten it. What, do you think, then, that my horses have nothing to do but to carry about your snivelling Frenchman? If you do, madame, I must make bold to tell you, you are out, for I'll see him hanged first. More brute you, then, for they've never carried nobody half so good. Why, looky, madame, if you must needs provoke me, I'll tell you a piece of my mind. You must know I can see as far into a millstone as another man, and so, if you thought for to fob me off with another of your smirking French puppies for a son-in-law, while you'll find yourself in hobble, that's all. Sir, you're a— But I won't say what. But I protest I hadn't no such a thought, no more hadn't Monsieur Dubois. My dear, said Mrs. Mervin, we shall be very late. Well, well, answered he, get away, then, off with you as fast as you can, it's high time. As to Molly, she's a fine lady enough in all conscience, I want none of your French chaps to make her worse. And so, saying, he mounted his horse, and we drove off, and I could not but think, with regret, of the different feelings we experienced upon leaving London, to what had belonged to our entering it. During the long journey, Madame Dubois was so very violent against the captain, that she obliged Mrs. Mervin to tell her, that, when in her presence, she must beg her to chew some other subject of discourse. We had a most affectionate reception from Lady Howard, whose kindness and hospitality cannot fail of making everybody happy—who is disposed so to be. Ah, dear my dearest sir, I hope, though I have hitherto neglected to mention it, that you have always remembered me to whoever has made any inquiry concerning me. Oh, my dear sir, I now write in the greatest uneasiness. Madame Dubois has made a proposal which terrifies me to death, and which was as unexpected as it is shocking. She had been employed for some hours this afternoon in reading letters from London, and just about tea-time, she sent for me into her room, and said with a look of great satisfaction, Come here, child, I've got some very good news to tell you, some thing that will surprise you, I'll give my word, for you had no notion of it. I begged her to explain herself, and then in terms which I cannot repeat, she said she had been considering what a shame it was to see me such a poor, country, shame-faced thing, when I ought to be a fine lady, that she had long, and upon several occasions, blushed for me, though she must own the fault was none of mine, for nothing better could be expected from a girl who had been so immured. However, she assured me she had, at length, hit upon a plan, which would make quite another creature of me. I waited without much impatience to hear what this preface led to, but I was soon awakened to more lively sensations, when she acquainted me, that her attention was to prove my birthright, and to claim, by law, the inheritance of my real family. It would be impossible for me to express my extreme consternation, when she thus unfolded her scheme. My surprise and terror were equally great. I could say nothing. I heard her with a silence which I had not the power to break. She then expatiated very warmly upon the advantages I should reap from her plan, talked in a high style of my future grandeur, assured me how heartily I should despise almost everybody, and every thing I had hitherto seen, predicted my marrying into some family of the first rank in the kingdom, and finally said I should spend a few months in Paris, where my education and manners might receive their last polish. She enlarged also upon the delight she should have, in common with myself, from mortifying the pride of certain people, and showing them that she was not to be slighted with impunity. In the midst of this discourse, I was relieved by a summons to tea. Madame Duvall was in great spirits, but my emotion was too painful for concealment, and everybody inquired into the cause. I would fain have waved the subject, but Madame Duvall was determined to make it public. She told them that she had it in her head to make something of me, and that they should soon call me by another name than that of Anville, and yet that she was not going to have the child married neither. I could not endure to hear her proceed, and was going to leave the room, which, when Lady Howard perceived, she begged Madame Duvall would defer her intelligence to some other opportunity. But she was so eager to communicate her scheme that she could bear no delay, and therefore they suffered me to go without opposition. Indeed, whenever my situation or affairs are mentioned by Madame Duvall, she speaks of them with such bluntness and severity that I cannot be enjoined to task more cruel than to hear her. I was afterwards acquainted with some particulars of the conversation by Miss Mervyn, who told me that Madame Duvall informed them of her plan with the utmost complacency, and seemed to think herself very fortunate in having suggested it. But soon after, she accidentally betrayed that she had been instigated into the scheme by her relations, the Brantons, whose letters which she received to-day, first mentioned the proposal. She declared she would have nothing to do with any roundabout ways, but go openly and instantly to law, in order to prove my birth, real name, and title, to the estate of my ancestors. How impertinent and officious in these Brantons to interfere thus in my concerns! You can hardly imagine what a disturbance this plan has made in the family. The captain, without inquiring into any particulars of the affair, has peremptorily declared himself against it, merely because it has been proposed by Madame Duvall, and they have battled the point together with great violence. Mrs. Mervyn says she will not even think till she hears your opinion. But Lady Howard, to my great surprise, openly avows her approbation of Madame Duvall's intention. However, she will write her reasons and sentiments upon the subject to you herself. As to Miss Mervyn, she is my second self, and in either hopes nor fears, but as I do. And as to me, I know not what to say, nor even what to wish. I have often thought my fate peculiarly cruel, to have but one parent, and from that one to be banished for ever. While on the other side I have but too well known, and felt the propriety of the separation. And yet, you may much better imagine than I can express, the internal anguish which sometimes oppresses my heart, when I reflect upon the strange indifference that must occasion a father never to make the least inquire after the health, the welfare, or even the life of his child. Oh, sir, to me the loss is nothing. Greatly, sweetly, and most benevolently, have you guarded me from feeling it. But for him, I grieve indeed. I must be divested, not merely of all filial piety, but of all humanity, could I ever think upon this subject, and not be wounded to the soul. Again, I must repeat, I know not what to wish. Think for me, therefore, my dearest sir, and suffer my doubting mind, that knows not which way to direct its hopes, to be guided by your wisdom and unerring counsel. From Lady Howard to the Reverend Mr. Willers, Howard Grove Dear sir, I cannot give a greater proof of the high opinion I have of your candor than by the liberty I am now going to take of presuming to offer you advice upon a subject concerning which you have so just acclaimed to act for yourself. But I know you have too unaffected a love of justice to be partially tenacious of your own judgment. Madame Duval has been proposing a scheme which has put us all in commotion, and against which, at first, in common with the rest of my family, I exclaimed. But upon more mature consideration, I own my objections, have almost wholly vanished. This scheme is no other than to commence a lawsuit with Sir John Belmont, to prove the validity of his marriage with Miss Evelyn, the necessary consequence of which proof will be securing his fortune and estate to his daughter. And why, my dear sir, should not this be?  But I know, too, that your mind is superior to being governed by prejudices, or to opposing any important cause or an account of a few disagreeable attendant circumstances. Your lovely charge, now first entering into life, has merit which ought not to be buried in obscurity. She seems born for an ornament to the world. Nature has been bountiful to her of whatever she had to bestow, and the peculiar attention you have given to her education has formed her mind to a degree of excellence, that in one so young I have scarce ever seen equaled. Fortune alone has hitherto been spearing of her gifts, and she too now opens the way which leads to all that is left to wish for her. What your reasons may have been, my good sir, for so carefully concealing the birth, name, and pretensions of this amiable girl and for bearing to make any climb upon Sir John Belmont, I am totally a stranger too, but without knowing I respect them for the high opinions that I have of your character and judgment. But I hope they are not insuperable, for I cannot but think that it was never designed for one who seems meant to grace the world to have her life devoted to retirement. Surely Sir John Belmont, rich as he has shown himself, could never see his accomplished daughter, and not be proud to own her, and eager to secure her the inheritance of his fortune. The admiration she met with in town, though merely the effect of her external attractions, was such that Mrs. Mervyn assures me she would have had the most splendid offers, had there not seemed to be some mystery in regard to her birth, which she was well informed was assiduously, though vainly endeavored to be discovered. Can it be right, my dear sir, that this promising young creature should be deprived of the fortune and rank of life to which she is lawfully entitled, and which you have prepared her to support and to use so nobly? To despise riches may indeed be philosophic, but to dispense them worthily must surely be more beneficial to mankind. Perhaps a few years or indeed a much shorter time may make this scheme impracticable. Sir John, though yet young, leaves a life too dissipated, for long duration, and when too late we may regret that something was not sooner done, for it will be next to impossible, after he is gone, to settle or prove anything with his heirs and executors. Pardon the earnestness with which I write my sense of this affair, but your charming word has made me so warmly her friend, that cannot be indifferent upon a subject of such importance to her future life. Adieu, my dear sir. Send me speedily an answer to this remonstrance, and believe me to be M. Horward. Your letter, Madam, has opened a source of anxiety to which I look forward with dread, and which, to seek close, I scarcely judge. Evelina, by Fanny Burney, Letter XXVIII, from Mr. Velars to Lady Howard, Barry Hill, May II. Your letter, madam, has opened a source of anxiety to which I look forward with dread, and which to see closed I scarcely dare expect. I am unwilling to oppose my opinion to that of your ladyship, nor indeed can I, but by arguments which I believe will rather rank me as a hermit ignorant of the world fit only for myself and as a proper guardian in an age such as this for an accomplished young woman. Yet, thus called upon, it behooves me to explain and endeavor to vindicate the reasons by which I have been hitherto guided. The mother of this dear child, who was led to destruction by her own imprudence, the hardness of heart of Madame Duvall, and the villainy of Sir John Belmont, was once, what her daughter is now, the best beloved of my heart. And her memory, so long as my own holds, I shall love, mourn, and honor. On the fatal day that her gentle soul left its mansion, and not many hours ere she ceased to breathe, I solemnly plighted my faith, that her child, if it lived, should know no father but myself or her acknowledged husband. You cannot, Madame, suppose that I found much difficulty in adhering to this promise, and forbearing to make any claim upon Sir John Belmont. Could I feel an affection the most paternal for this poor sufferer and not abominate her destroyer? Could I wish to deliver to him, who had so basely betrayed the mother, the helpless and innocent offspring, who, born in so much sorrow, so much sorrow, seemed entitled to all the compassionate tenderness of pity? For many years, the name alone of that man, accidentally spoken in my hearing, almost invested me of my Christianity, and scarce could I forbear to execrate him. Yet I sought not, neither did I desire, to deprive him of his child, had he with any appearance of contrition, or indeed of humanity, endeavored to become less unworthy such a blessing. But he is a stranger to all parental feelings, and has with a savage insensibility, for born to inquire even into the existence of this sweet orphan, though the situation of his injured wife was but too well known to him. You wish to be acquainted with my intentions? I must acknowledge they were such as I now perceive would not be honored with your ladyship's approbation. For though I have sometimes thought of presenting Evelina to her father, and demanding the justice which is her due, yet at other times I have both disdained and feared the application, disdained lest it should be refused, and feared lest it should be accepted. Lady Belmont, who was firmly persuaded of her approaching dissolution, frequently and earnestly besought me, that if her infant was a female, I would not abandon her to the direction of a man so holy unfit to take the charge of her education. But should she be importanately demanded that I would retire with her abroad, and carefully conceal her from Sir John, till some apparent change in his sentiments and conduct should announce him less improper for such a trust? And often would she say, should the poor babe have any feelings correspondent with its mothers, it will have no want while under your protection. Alas, she had no sooner quitted it herself than she was plunged into a gulf of misery that swallowed up her peace, reputation, and life. During the childhood of Evelina, I suggested a thousand plans for the security of her birthright, but I as many times rejected them. I was in a perpetual conflict between the desire that she should have justice done her, and the apprehension that, while I improved her fortune, I should endanger her mind. However, as her character began to be formed, and her disposition to be displayed, my perplexity abated. The road before me seemed less thorny and intricate, and I thought I could perceive the right path from the wrong. For when I observed the artless openness, the ingenuous simplicity of her nature, when I saw that her guileless and innocent soul fancied all the world to be pure and disinterested as herself, and that her heart was open to every impression with which love, pity, or art might assail it, then did I flatter myself that to follow my own inclination and to secure her welfare was the same thing. Since, to expose her to the snares and dangers, inevitably encircling a house of which the master is dissipated and unprincipled, without the guidance of a mother, or any prudent and sensible female, seemed to me no less than suffering her to stumble into some dreadful pit when the sun is in its meridian. My plan, therefore, was not merely to educate and to cherish her as my own, but to adopt her the heiress of my small fortune, and to bestow her upon some worthy man with whom she might spend her days in tranquility, cheerfulness, and good humor, untainted by vice, folly, or ambition. So much for the time past. Such have been the motives by which I have been governed, and I hope they will be allowed not merely to account for, but also to justify the conduct which has resulted from them. It now remains to speak of the time to come. And here, indeed, I am sensible of difficulties which I almost despair of surmounting according to my wishes. I pay the highest deference to your ladyship's opinion, which it is extremely painful to me not to concur with. Yet I am so well acquainted with your goodness that I presume to hope it would not be absolutely impossible for me to offer such arguments as might lead you to think with me that this young creature's chance of happiness seems less doubtful in retirement than it would be in the gay and dissipated world. But why should I perplex your ladyship with reasoning that can turn to so little account? For alas, what arguments, what persuasions, can I make use of, with any prospect of success, to such a woman as Madame de Waal? Her character and the violence of her disposition intimidate me from making the attempt.  I will not, therefore, enter into a contest from which I have nothing to expect, but altercation and impertence. As soon would I discuss the effect of sound with the deaf, or with the nature of colors with the blind, as aim at illuminating with conviction a mind so warped by prejudice, so much the slave of unruly and illiberal passions. Unused as she is to control, persuasion would but harden, and opposition in censor. I yield, therefore, to the necessity which compels my reluctant acquiescence, and shall now turn all my thoughts upon considering of such methods for the conducting this enterprise as may be most conducive to the happiness of my child, and least liable to wound her sensibility. The lawsuit, therefore, I wholly and absolutely disapprove. Will you, my dear Madame, forgive the freedom of an old man, if I own myself greatly surprised that you could, even for a moment, listen to a plan so violent, so public, so totally repugnant to all female delicacy? I am satisfied your ladyship has not weighed this project. There was a time, indeed, when to assert the innocence of Lady Belmont, and to blaze into the world the wrongs, not guilt by which she suffered, I proposed, nay, attempted a similar plan. But then all assistance and encouragement was denied. How cruel to the remembrance I bear of her woes is this tardy resentment of Madame Duvall. She was deaf to the voice of nature, though she has harkened to that of ambition. Never can I consent to have this dear and timid girl brought forward to the notice of the world by such a method, a method which will subject her to all the impertence of curiosity, the sneers of conjecture, and the stings of ridicule. And for what? The attainment of wealth which she does not want, and the gratification of vanity which she does not feel? A child to appear against a father? No, Madame Olden and firm as I am, I would even yet sooner convey her myself to some remote part of the world, though I were sure of dying in the expedition. For a different had been the motives which would have stimulated her unhappy mother to such a proceeding. All her felicity in this world was irretrievably lost. Her life was become a burden to her, and her fair fame, which she had early been taught to prize above all other things, had received a mortal wound. Therefore, to clear her own honour, and to secure from blemish the birth of her child, was all the good which Fortune had reserved herself the power of bestowing. But even this last consolation was withheld from her. Let milder measures be adopted, and, since it must be so, let application be made to Sir John Belmont, but as to a lawsuit I hope upon this subject never more to hear it mentioned. With Madame Duvall, all pleas of delicacy would be ineffectual. Her scheme must be opposed by arguments better suited to her understanding. I will not therefore talk of its impropriety, but endeavor to prove its inutility. Have the goodness then to tell her that her attentions would be frustrated by her plan. Since, should the lawsuit be commenced, and even should the cause be gained, Sir John Belmont would still have it in his power, and, if irritated, no doubt in his inclination to cut off her granddaughter with a shilling. She cannot do better herself than to remain quiet and inactive in the affair. The long and mutual animosity between her and Sir John will make her interference merely productive of debates and ill-will. Neither would I have Evelina appear till summoned. And as to myself, I must wholly decline acting, though I will, with unwirried zeal, devote all my thoughts to giving counsel. But, in truth, I have neither inclination nor spirits adequate to engaging personally with this man. My opinion is that he would pay more respect to a letter from your ladyship upon this subject than from any other person. I therefore advise and hope that you will yourself take the trouble of writing to him in order to open the affair. When he shall be inclined to see Evelina, I have for him a posthumous letter, which his much injured lady left to present it to him if ever such a meeting should take place. The views of the Brantons in suggesting this scheme are obviously interested. They hope, by securing to Evelina the fortune of her father to induce Madame Duvall to settle her own upon themselves. In this, however, they would probably be mistaken.  And, therefore, the less her grandchild requires her assistance, the more gladly she will give it. I have but one thing more to add, from which, however, I can by no means recede. My words so solemnly given to Lady Belmont, that her child, should never be owned but with herself, must be inviolably adhered to. I am, dear Madame, with great respect, your ladyship's most obedient servant, Arthur Villars. End of LETTER XXVIII LETTER XXIX OF EVELINA This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ed Mead Evelina by Fanny Burney LETTER XXIX From Mr. Villars to Evelina Barry Hill, May 2 How sincerely do I sympathize in the uneasiness and concern which my beloved Evelina has so much reason to feel? The cruel scheme in agitation is equally repugnant to my judgment and my inclination. Yet, to oppose it seems impracticable. To follow the dictates of my own heart, I should instantly recall you to myself and never more consent to your being separated from me. But the manners and opinion of the world demand a different conduct. Hope, however, for the best, and be satisfied you shall meet with no indignity.  Arthur Villars END OF LETTER XXIX I is thrown, and I attend the event in trembling. Lady Howard has written to Paris, and sent her letter to town, to be forwarded in the ambassador's packet, and in less than a fortnight therefore, she expects an answer. Oh, sir! With what anxious and patience shall I wait its arrival? Upon it seems to depend the fate of my future life. My solicitude is so great, and my suspense so painful, that I cannot rest a moment in peace, or turn my thoughts into any other channel. Deeply interested, as I now am in the event, most sincerely do I regret that the plan was ever proposed, but thinks it cannot end my satisfaction. For either I must be torn from the arms of my more than father, or I must have the misery of being finally convinced that I am cruelly rejected by him who has the natural claimed that dear title, which to write, mention, or think of, fills my whole soul with filial tenderness. The subject is discussed here eternally. Captain Merthyn and Madame Duvall, as usual, quarrel whenever it is started. But I am so wholly engrossed by my own reflections, that I cannot even listen to them. My imagination changes the scene perpetually. One moment I am embraced by a kind and relenting parent, who takes me to that heart from which I have hitherto been banished, and supplicates, through me, peace and forgiveness from the ashes of my mother. At another, he regards me with detestation, considers me as the living image of an injured saint, and repulses me with horror. But I will not afflict you with the melancholy phantasms of my brain. I will endeavour to compose my mind to a more tranquil state, and forbear to write again till I have in some measure succeeded. May heaven bless you, my dearest sir, and long, long may it continue you on earth, to bless your grateful Everliner. Sir, you will, doubtless, be surprised at receiving a letter from one who had for so short a period the honour of your acquaintance, and that at so great a distance of time. But the motive which has induced me to take this liberty is of so delicate a nature, that were I to commence making apologies for my officiousness. I fear my letter would be too long for your patience. You have probably already conjectured the subject upon which I mean to treat. My regard for Mr. Emmeline and his amiable daughter was well known to you, nor can I ever cease to be interested in whatever belongs to their memory or family. I must own myself somewhat distressed in what manner to introduce the purport of my writing. Yet as I think that, in affairs of this kind, frankness is the first requisite to a good understanding between the party's concern. I will neither torment you nor myself with punctilious ceremonies, but proceed instantly and openly to the business which occasions my giving you this trouble. I presume, sir, it would be superfluous to tell you that your child resides still in Dorsetshire, and is still under the protection of the Reverend Mr. Willers, in whose house she was born. For though no inquiries concerning her have reached his ears or mind, I can never suppose it possible you have foreborn to make them. It only reminds, therefore, to tell you that your daughter is now grown up, that she has been educated with the utmost care and the utmost success, and that she is now a most deserving, accomplished, and amiable young woman. Whatever may be your view of her future destination in life, it seems time to declare it. She is greatly admired, and, I doubt not, will be very much sought after. It is proper, therefore, that her future expectations, and your pleasure concerning her, should be made known. Believe me, sir, she merits your utmost attention and regard. You could not see and know her, and remain unmoved, by those sensations of affection, which belong to so near and tender a relationship. She is the lovely resemblance of her lovely mother. Pardon, sir, the liberty I take in mentioning that unfortunate lady, but I think it behoves me, upon this occasion, to show the esteem I felt for her. Allow me, therefore, to say, and be not offended at my freedom, that the memory of that excellent lady has but too long remained under the aspersions of calamity. Surely it is time to vindicate her fame, and how can that be done in a manner more eligible, more grateful to her friends, or more honorable to yourself, than by openly receiving as your child the daughter of the late Lady Belmont. The vulnerable man who has had the care of her education deserves your warmest acknowledgments, for the unremitting pains he has taken, and the attention he has shown in the discharge of his trust. Indeed, she has been peculiarly fortunate in meeting with such a friend and guardian. A more worthy man, or one whose character seems nearer to perfection, does not exist. Permit me to assure you, sir, she will amply repay whatever regard and favour you may hear after show her. By the comfort and happiness you cannot fail to find in her affection and duty. To be owned properly by you is the first wish of our heart, and I am sure that to merit your approbation will be the first study of our life. I fear that you will think this address impertinent, but I must rest upon the goodness of my intention to plead my excuse. I am, sir, your most obedient humble servant, M. Howard. End of the letter 31.