Here, take back your slave, my dear cousin. He has been mine for these eight days past, and he bears his chains with so good a grace, that he seems formed for captivity. Return me thanks that I did not keep him still eight days longer; for without offence to you, if I had kept him till he began to grow tired of me, I should not have sent him back so soon. I therefore detained him without any scruple; but I was so scrupulous however, that I durst not let him lodge in my house. I have sometimes perceived in myself that haughtiness of soul, which disdains servile ceremonies, and which is so confident with virtue. In this instance however, I have been more reserved than usual, without knowing why: and all that I know for certain is, that I am more disposed to censure, than to applaud my reserve.
But can you guess what induced our friend to stay here so patiently? First, he had the pleasure of my company, and I presume that circumstance alone was sufficient to make him patient. Then he saved me a great deal of confusion, and was of service to me in my business; a friend is never tired of such offices. A third reason which you have probably conjectured, though you pretend not to know it, is that he talked to me about you; and if we subtract the time employed in this conversation from the whole time which he has passed here, you will find that there is very little remaining to be placed to my account. But what an odd whim, to leave you, in order to have the pleasure of talking of you! Not so odd as may be imagined. He is under constraint in your company; he must be continually upon his guard; the least indiscretion would become a crime, and in those dangerous moments, minds endued with sentiments of honour, never fail to recollect their duty; but when we are remote from the object of our affections, we may indulge ourselves with feasting our imaginations. If we stifle an idea when it becomes criminal, why should we reproach ourselves for having entertained it when it was not so? Can the pleasing recollection of innocent pleasures, ever be a crime? This, I imagine, is a way of reasoning, which you will not acquiesce in, but which nevertheless may be admitted. He began, as I may say, to run over the whole course of his former affections. The days of his youth passed over a second time in our conversation. He renewed all his confidence in me; he recalled the happy time, in which he was permitted to love you; he painted to my imagination, all the charms of an innocent passion——Without doubt, he embellished them!
He said little of his present condition with regard to you, and what he mentioned rather denoted respect and admiration, than love; so that I have the pleasure to think that he will return, much more confident as to the nature of his affections, than when he came hither. Not but that, when you are the subject, one may perceive at the bottom of that susceptible mind, a certain tenderness, which friendship alone, though not less affecting, still expresses in a different manner; but I have long observed that it is impossible to see you, or to think of you with indifference; and if to that general affection which the sight of you inspires, we add the more tender impression which an indelible recollection must have left upon his mind, we shall find that it is difficult and almost impossible that, with the most rigid virtue, he should be otherwise than he is. I have fully interrogated him, carefully observed him, and watched him narrowly; I have examined him with the utmost attention. I cannot read his inmost thoughts, nor do I believe them more intelligible to himself: but I can answer, at least, that he is struck with a sense of his duty and of yours, and that the idea of Eloisa abandoned and contemptible, would be more horrible than his own annihilation. My dear cousin, I have but one piece of advice to give you, and I desire you to attend to it; avoid any detail concerning what is passed, and I will take upon me to answer for the future.
With regard to the restitution which you mentioned, you must think no more of it. After having exhausted all the reasons I could suggest, I intreated him, pressed him, conjured him, but in vain. I pouted, I even kissed him, I took hold of both his hands, and would have fallen on my knees to him if he would have suffered me; but he would not so much as hear me. He carried the obstinacy of his humour so far, as to swear that he would sooner consent never to see you again, than part with your picture. At last, in a fit of passion, he made me feel it. It was next his heart. There, said he, with a sigh which almost stopped his breath, there is the picture, the only comfort I have left, and of which nevertheless you would deprive me; be assured that it shall never be torn from me, but at the expense of my life. Believe me, Eloisa, we had better be discreet, and suffer him to keep the picture. Afterall, where is the importance? His obstinacy will be his punishment.
After he had thoroughly unburthened and eased his mind, he appeared so composed that I ventured to talk to him about his situation. I found that neither time nor reason had made any alteration in his system, and that he confined his whole ambition to the passing his life in the service of Lord B——. I could not but approve such honourable intentions, so consistent with his character, and so becoming that gratitude, which is due to such unexhausted kindness. He told me that you were of the same opinion; but that Mr. Wolmar was silent. A sudden thought strikes me. From your husband's singular conduct, and other symptoms, I suspect that he has some secret design upon our friend, which he does not disclose. Let us leave him to himself, and trust to his discretion. The manner in which he behaves, sufficiently proves that, if my conjecture is right, he meditates nothing but what will be for the advantage of the person, about whom he has taken such uncommon pains.
You gave a very just description of his figure and of his manners, which proves that you have observed him more attentively than I should have imagined. But don't you find that his continued anxieties have rendered his countenance more expressive than it used to be? Notwithstanding the account you gave me, I was afraid to find him tinctured with that affected politeness, those apish manners which people seldom fail to contract at Paris, and which, in the round of trifles which employ an indolent day, are vainly displayed under different modes. Whether it be that some minds are not susceptible of this polish, or whether the sea air entirely effaced it, I could not discover in him the least marks of affectation; and all the zeal he expressed for me, seemed to flow entirely from the dictates of his heart. He talked to me about my poor husband; but instead of comforting me, he chose to join with me in bewailing him, and never once attempted to make any fine speeches on the subject. He caressed my daughter, but instead of admiring her as I do, he reproached me with her failings, and, like you, complained that I spoiled her; he entered into my concerns with great zeal, and was seldom of my opinion in any respect. Moreover, the wind might have blown my eyes out, before he would have thought of drawing a curtain; I might have been fatigued to death in going from one room to another, before he would have had gallantry enough to have stretched out his hand, covered with the skirt of his coat, to support me: my fan lay upon the ground yesterday for more than a second, and he did not fly from the bottom of the room, as if he was going to snatch it out of the fire. In the morning, before he came to visit me, he never once sent to inquire how I did. When we are walking together, he does not affect to have his hat nailed upon his head, to shew that he knows the pink of the mode.[52]At table, I frequently asked him for his snuff-box, which he always gave me in his hand, and never presented it upon a plate, like afine gentleman; or rather like a footman. He did not fail to drink my health twice at least at dinner, and I will lay a wager that if he stays with us this winter, we shall see him sit round the fire with us, and warm himself like an old cit. You laugh, cousin; but shew me one of our gallants newly arrived from Paris, who preserves the same manly deportment. As to the rest, I think you must allow that our philosopher is altered for the worse in one respect, which is, that he takes rather more notice of people who speak to him, which he cannot do but to your prejudice; nevertheless, I hope that I shall be able to reconcile him to Madam Belon. For my part, I think him altered for the better, because he is more serious than ever. My dear, take great care of him till my arrival. He is just the man I could wish to have the pleasure of plaguing all day long.
Admire my discretion; I have taken no notice yet of the present I send you, and which is an earnest of another to come. But you have received it before you opened my letter, and you know how much, and with what reason I idolize it; you, whose avarice is so anxious about this present, you must acknowledge that I have performed more than I promised. Ah! the dear little creature! While you are reading this, she is already in your arms; she is happier than her mother; but in two months time I shall be happier than she, for I shall be more sensible of my felicity. Alas! dear cousin, do not you possess me wholly already? Where you and my daughter are, what part of me is wanting? There she is, the dear little infant; take her as your own; I give her up; I put her into your hands: I consign all maternal authority over to you; correct my failings; take that charge upon yourself, of which I acquitted myself so little to your liking: henceforward be as a mother to her, who is one day to be your daughter-in-law, and to render her dearer to me still, make another Eloisa of her if possible. She is like you in the face already; as to her temper, I guess that she will be grave and thoughtful; when you have corrected those little caprices which I have been accused of encouraging you will find that my daughter will give herself the airs of my cousin; but she will be happier than Eloisa in having less tears to shed, and less struggles to encounter. Do you know that she can't be any longer without her little M——, and that it is partly for that reason I send her back? I had a conversation with her yesterday, which made our friends ready to die with laughing. First, she leaves me without the least regret, I, who am her humble servant all day long, and can deny her nothing she asks for; and you, of whom she is afraid, and who answer her,No, twenty times a day; you, by way of excellence, are her little mamma, whom she visits with pleasure, and whose denials she likes better than all my fine presents: when I told her that I was going to send her to you, she was transported as you may imagine; but to perplex her, I told her that you, in return was to send me little M.——in her stead, and that was not agreeable to her. She was quite at a non-plus, and asked what I would do with him. I told her that I would take him to myself: she began to pout. Harriot, said I, won't you give up your little M——to me? No, said she, somewhat coldly. No? But if I won't give him up neither, who shall settle it between us? Mamma, my little mamma shall settle it. Then I shall have the preference, for you know she will do whatever I desire. Oh, but mamma will do nothing but what's right! And do you think I should desire what's wrong? The sly little jade began to smile. But after all, I continued, for what reason should she refuse to give me little M——? Because he is not fit for you. And why is he not fit for me? Another arch smile as full of meaning as the former. Tell me honestly, is it not because you think me too old for him? No, mamma, but he is too young for you... This from a child but seven years old...
I amused myself with piquing her still farther. My dear Henriette, said I, assuming a serious air, I assure you that he is not fit for you neither. Why so? she cried, as if she had been suddenly alarmed. Because he is too giddy for you. Oh, mamma, is that all? I will make him wise. But if unfortunately he should make you foolish? Then, mamma, I should be like you. Like me, impertinence? Yes, mamma, you are saying all day that you are foolishly fond of me. Well then, I will be foolishly fond of him, that's all.
I know you don't approve of this pretty prattle, and that you will soon know how to check it. Neither will I justify it, though I own it delights me; but I only mention it to convince you, that my daughter is already in love with her little M——, and that if he is two years younger than her, she is not unworthy of that authority, which she may claim by right of seniority. I perceive likewise, by opposing your example and my own to that of your poor mother's, that where the woman governs, the house is not the worse managed. Farewell, my dear friend; farewell, my constant companion! The time is approaching, and the vintage shall not be gathered without me.
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