Читать книгу The Life and Legacy of Harriette Wilson - Harriette Wilson - Страница 8

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By a little before eight on the following evening, the party I have before mentioned all sat down to dinner at Lord Lowther's in Pall Mall. Lord Yarmouth was at the bottom of the table, opposite to Lord Lowther; Amy, on Lowther's right hand, Fanny at his left; Street, the editor, was her neighbour; and I sat next to Croker. Poor Julia had not been invited. Lord Hertford, who at his own table is always particularly entertaining, was a little out of sorts here, which generally happened to him when he dined with Lowther, who gave a very bad dinner.

Lord Hertford very candidly owns that he dislikes a bad dinner; and I had heard him own it so often to Lord Lowther, that I was surprised his lordship invited him at all, unless he had thought proper to have provided a good one.

The claret, Lowther said, he wanted Lord Hertford's opinion about, having just provided himself with a large quantity of it, in consequence of its quality having been strongly recommended to him.

Our first glass had scarcely gone round, when Lord Hertford said, in his usual, loud, odd voice, addressing Lowther, "You asked me for my opinion, and I will give it you; your claret is not worth a d—n."

Poor Lowther looked a little annoyed.

Croker fought on his side. "I must differ in opinion with you, Lord Hertford," said he, in his starched pragmatical manner. "I think the claret excellent."

"With all my heart," said Hertford, in a tone and manner of the most perfect indifference.

"How is your poetical doctor?" Lowther asked me; alluding to my physician, Doctor Nevinson, who, during a serious illness in which he had attended me, had been kind enough to sing my praise in his best rhymes.

I was very earnest in my commendations of that gentleman, believing myself under some obligations to him.

"These doctors are lucky fellows," Croker observed, affectedly.

"Not always," said I. "I have here a few lines, poor old Eliot of the Audit Office made at my house this morning, on Dr. Nevinson's hard case;" and I put into his hand a small bit of paper which was in my reticule.

"What flirtation is going on there, pray, between you two?" inquired Street, who observed me.

"Nothing," I replied, "but a few bad rhymes about Dr. Nevinson."

"Read! read!" exclaimed they all.

Between Lord Lowther's scanty courses there was ever room for reflection, even to madness.

Mr. Secretary Croker read, as follows:

THE PHYSICIAN'S PRAYER TO ÆOLUS.

God of the winds, oh! grant my prayer,

And end this solemn frolic;

Or, when I next attend the fair,

Defend them from the cholic.

But if thy brother of the bow

To physic bind me fast,

Grant that the old from me may go,

For cure, to Dr. Last!

Release me from the dry concern

Of listening to their moaning,

And from your votary ever turn

Old dames with cholic groaning!

For patients, oh, to me impart

The gay, the young, the witty;

Such as may interest the heart.

This prayer, oh grant, in pity!

"Allow me to look at them," said Street, as soon as Croker had finished reading.

"I think Eliot clever," said Hertford. "What has become of him?"

"Oh," replied Amy, "I believe he is going to die he has grown so very dull and heavy. Do you know, I told him a very interesting story one day last week, and he did not at all listen to it; and before I had finished repeating it a second time he fell fast asleep."

"Poor fellow!" said Street: he could not stand the second edition.

Mr. Graham sat on my left hand, and was as attentive to me as possible. Graham was a beauty; a very Apollo in form, with handsome features, particularly his teeth and eyes; sensible too, and well educated.

"I brought you two together, because I knew you would fall in love with each other," said Lowther.

"How impossible," thought I, as the stranger in Hyde Park, as I last saw him, or fancied I saw him blush, crossed my mind. I was not disposed to admire anything else, indeed; but I rather think Graham was pedantic.

He spoke to me a good deal of Fred Lamb, with whom he had been travelling on the Continent.

"Fred Lamb has often been jealous of me," said Graham; "but he would be jealous of any man; yet I have always liked Fred much better than ever he liked me."

"His passion for women is so very violent," I observed, "that somehow or other, it disgusted me."

"All ladies are not so refined," replied Graham, laughing.

"Perhaps not," answered I; "perhaps I may not be so refined when I like my man better."

Street was all this time making hard love to Fanny. Poor Street though a very pleasant man, is, as he knows, a very ugly one. Fanny's extreme good nature was always a Refuge for the Destitute. If ever there was a lame, a deaf, a blind, or an ugly man, in our society, Fanny invariably made up to that man immediately, to put him in countenance. Nay, she would, I believe, have made up to the Duke of Devonshire, blind, deaf, absent and all, had he fallen in her way.

At this moment, my ear caught the word cruel, as applied to Fanny by Street.

"Quite the reverse, Fanny is all goodness," I exclaimed.

"Yes," rejoined Street, "as far as words go."

"It is you, Mr. Street, who cruelly neglect me, on the contrary," said Fanny, laughing.

"Never!" answered Street, laying his hand on his heart.

"Then why did you not call at the oilshop?" Fanny asked; alluding to the place where she had formerly been lodging for a short time in Park Street, and to which she had invited Street.

"Wounded pride!" observed Street.

"She would have poured oil into your wounds," said Lord Hertford.

"I'll thank you to pass me another bottle of this bad claret," squeaked out Croker; "for I must be candid enough to say that I like it much."

"I wont abuse it again," Lord Hertford observed, "for fear you should get drunk."

I now grew tired of waiting for Amy to make a first move, and began to think she was ill disposed in the humility of her heart to take upon her the privilege of eldest sister: so I made it for her and we retired to Lowther's drawing-room, from which we took a peep into his dressing-room, where we found a set of vile, dirty combs, brushes, towels, and dressing-gowns. Lowther, who always has a pain in his liver, and knows not how to take kindly to his bottle, entered his apartment, just as we were loudest in our exclamations of horror and dismay, as these said dirty objects offered themselves to our view.

"For heaven's sake," said Amy, with whom Lowther was certainly in love, "do turn away your valet, and burn these nasty, dirty brushes and things."

"It will be no use, I believe," replied Lowther; "for every valet will copy his master."

"What! then," exclaimed Amy, "you admit the master is dirty?"

Lowther feared he must plead guilty.

"I am very glad I ran away from you," retorted Amy, who had gone with him into the country, and afterwards cut him because he did not ask for a separate dressing-room at the inns on the road.

The other gentlemen soon joined us in the drawing-room, drank their coffee, and then we were all on to the Opera.

I had the honour of taking Mr. Graham there in my carriage with Fanny. Amy went with Lord Lowther.

We found Julia in our private box, alone and half asleep, dressed very elegantly; and, in my opinion, looking very interesting and well.

"What, alone?" said I. "Why do you not make the men more civil?" and I introduced her to young Graham.

Julia had lately got nearly to the bottom of her heroics with Cotton. She was ashamed to admit the idea even to herself; she never would own it to me: but the fact was, she was tired of Cotton, and dying, and sighing, and longing secretly for something new. Young and beautiful, her passions, like those of a man, were violent and changeable; in addition to which she had lately suffered every possible indignity and inconvenience which debts and duns could inflict; besides, Fanny and I, who knew that Mr. Cotton had a wife and large family at home, had laboured with all our hearts to disgust Julia with Cotton, believing that it would be for the good of both that they separated for ever. Cotton had not a shilling to spare for the support of Julia's children; and Julia's accouchements took place regularly once in eleven months. She had often vainly applied to her parents, as well as to her uncle, Lord Carysfort, who only wrote to load her with reproaches.

As soon as Graham had left us, Julia expressed her admiration of him, in very warm terms.

"He has no money," said Fanny; "besides, I can see that he is making up to Harriette. Do, my dear Julia, consider all your beautiful children; and, if you can leave Cotton to his poor wife, and must form another connection, let it be with some one who can contribute to the support of your young family."

Julia assured us she was at that moment actually in expectation of being arrested; and she entreated that Fanny or I would make an application to some of her noble relations, which she promised to do.

This point being decided, she again talked of Graham's beauty, wondered where he was, and anxiously inquired whether I was sure that he had taken a fancy for me.

"Not a bit sure," I replied. "I know nothing at all of the matter, neither do I care."

Fanny then related all about my last meeting with my stranger and his dog to Julia, who seemed to understand my sensations much better than Fanny did.

"Oh, mon Dieu?" interrupted I, "there is in that box next to Lady Foley's, a man—no, it is still handsomer than my stranger! and yet" (the stranger turned his head towards our side of the house)—"Oh!" continued I, taking hold of Fanny's hand, in a fit of rapture, "it is he! only his hat, till now, concealed that beautiful head of hair."

"Where? where?" cried out they both at once.

"Oh! that some one would come into our box now and tell us who he is!" I exclaimed.

"How provoking you are," said Julia. "Why do not you point out the man to us?"

"It is that man, who is laughing.—Oh! I had no idea that his teeth were so very beautiful!"

"Dear me, how tiresome," observed Fanny, quietly. "If you will not tell us which is your man let us talk of something else."

"He is there," replied I, "next to Lady Foley's box, leaning on his arm."

Julia put her glass to her eye as usual; being remarkably short-sighted she could distinguish nothing without it.

"I know him," said Julia, after fixing him for some time.

"Not much?" I observed, almost breathless. "Did you ever speak to him?"

"I have met him in society, when I was a girl," continued Julia; "but I was intimate with a girl, to whom, when young, he proposed. Her wedding clothes were made; she used to sleep in my room, with his picture round her neck. She adored him beyond all that could be imagined of love and devotion, and within a few days of their proposed marriage he declared off. His excuse was that his father refused his consent."

"For many years," continued Julia, "my friend's sufferings were severe; her parents trembled for her reason. No one was permitted to name her former lover in her presence. She is now Lady Conyngham."

"And his name?" said I.

"Lord Ponsonby, who is supposed to be the handsomest man in England: but he must now be forty, if not more," replied Julia.

"I wish he were sixty," I answered. "As it is, I have no chance: but indeed I never thought I had. He is a sort of man I think I could be wicked enough to say my prayers to. I could live in his happiness only without his knowing me. I could wait for hours near his house for the chance of seeing him pass or hearing his voice."

Fanny laughed outright.

Julia only exclaimed, "Well done, Harriette! You are more romantic than ever I was at your age, and I thought that was impossible."

"You did not love Lord Ponsonby," retorted I.

"True," said Julia: "badinage apart, Ponsonby is, as I have always been told, very near perfection. But what chance can you have? He is married to the loveliest creature on earth—the youngest daughter of Lord Jersey."

"I knew very well," sighed I despondingly, "before I heard of his marriage, that I should never be anything to him."

"I will tell you where he lives," said Julia. "It is in Curzon Street, May Fair."

"Well then," thought I, "at least when he passes me, I shall not, as yesterday, fancy I am looking at him for the last time."

Upon the whole my spirits were violently elated this evening. Lord Ponsonby I believe did not perceive me. I was most anxious, yet afraid, to see his wife.

"I cannot find her box," observed Julia, "else I should know her immediately."

We now lost sight of his lordship for some time, he having left the box I first saw him in. I perceived him for an instant afterwards, but missed him altogether before the opera was over.

"I am glad I have not seen his wife," said I, after we were seated in the carriage. "I hope I shall never see her as long as I live."

I resolved now to make no kind of advances to become acquainted with Lord Ponsonby; but on the very next evening I indulged myself in passing his house at least fifty times. I saw and examined the countenances of his footmen and the colour of his window-curtains: even the knocker of his door escaped not my veneration, since Lord Ponsonby must have touched it so often. My very nature seemed now to have undergone a change. I began to dislike society, and considered the unfortunate situation I had fallen into with horror; because I fancied Lord Ponsonby would despise me. I often reflected whether there might yet be some mighty virtue in my power, some sacrifice of self, some exertion of energy, by which I might, one day, deserve to be respected, or to have my memory respected by Lord Ponsonby after I was dead.

The fact is, I really now lived but in his sight, and I only met him once or twice in a week, to see him pass me without notice, At last I began to believe he really did see me in the park with pleasure, when by any accident late in the evening, I happened to be alone and the park empty. Once he rode behind me to my very door, and passed it, without seeming to look at me: the dread of being by him accused of boldness ever prevented my observation.

This day, on entering my house, I mounted hastily up into my garret, and got upon the leads, there to watch if Lord Ponsonby turned back, or whether he had merely followed me by accident on his way somewhere else. He rode on almost as far as I could see, and then turned back again, and galloped hastily by my door as though afraid of being observed by me.

"Suppose he were to love me!" thought I, and the idea caused my heart to beat wildly. I would not dwell upon it. It was ridiculous. It would only expose me to after-disappointment. What was I, that Lord Ponsonby should think about me? What could I ever be to him? Still there was no reason which I could discover, why I might not love Lord Ponsonby. I was made for love, and I looked for no return. I should have liked him to have been assured that for the rest of his life mine was devoted to him. In short, though I scarcely ventured to admit it, hope did begin to predominate. I was young, and my wishes had hitherto rarely been suppressed by disappointment.

My reflections were interrupted by my servant, who brought me a letter from George Brummell, full of nonsensical vows and professions. "When," he wrote, "beautiful Harriette, will you admit me into your house? Why so obstinately refuse my visits? Tell me, I do entreat you, when I may but throw myself at your feet without fear of derision from a public homage on the pavement, or dislocation from the passing hackney coaches?" The rest I have forgotten.

Wellington called on me the next morning before I had finished my breakfast. I tried him on every subject I could muster. On all, he was most impenetrably taciturn. At last he started an original idea of his own; actual copyright, as Stockdale would call it.

"I wonder you do not get married, Harriette!"

(By-the-bye, ignorant people are always wondering.)

"Why so?"

Wellington, however, gives no reason for anything unconnected with fighting, at least since the Convention of Cintra, and he therefore again became silent. Another burst of attic sentiment blazed forth.

"I was thinking of you last night, after I got into bed," resumed Wellington.

"How very polite to the duchess," I observed. "Apropos to marriage, duke, how do you like it?"

Wellington, who seems to make a point of never answering one, continued, "I was thinking—I was thinking that you will get into some scrape, when I go to Spain."

"Nothing so serious as marriage neither, I hope!"

"I must come again to-morrow, to give you a little advice," continued Wellington.

"Oh, let us have it all out now, and have done with it."

"I cannot," said Wellington, putting on his gloves, and taking a hasty leave of me.

"I am glad he is off," thought I, "for this is indeed very uphill work. This is worse than Lord Craven."

As soon as he was gone, I hastened to Curzon Street. The window-shutters of Lord Ponsonby's house were all closed. How disappointed and low-spirited I felt at the idea that his lordship had left town! Suspense was insufferable; so I ventured to send my servant to inquire when the family were expected in London.

"In about a month," was the answer. "I must forget this man," thought I, "it is far too great a bore": and yet I felt that to forget him was impossible.

Things went on in the same way for a week or two. Amy had closed with Mr. Sydenham's proposal, and changed her name to that of Mrs. Sydenham. She called on Fanny one morning, when her drawing-room was half full of beaux.

"Beautiful Amy, how do you do?" said Nugent, with that eternal smile of his!—it is so vulgar to be always looking joyful, and full of glee, I cannot think what he can mean by it.

"Oh," said Amy, withdrawing her hand, "I must never flirt, nor have any beaux again, I must now lead a pure, virtuous, chaste, and proper life."

"Who has laid such an appalling embargo on you?" I asked.

"Why, do you not know that Sydenham and I are become man and wife? and that I have changed my name and my home for his?"

After wishing Mrs. Sydenham joy I took my leave. On reaching home I found young Freeling in my drawing-room, waiting to pay his respects to me.

I began to think I had scarcely done this young man justice, he appeared so very humble, quiet and amiable. He blushed exceedingly when I addressed him, but—never mind the vanity—it proceeded more from a sort of respectful growing passion towards me, than, as I had at first imagined, from mauvaise honte.

Freeling was not fashionable, as I have said before; but I must add that I believe even his enemy could say nothing worse of him.

"I will not deceive you," said I to him one day, seeing he was inclined to follow the thing up steadily, under the impression perhaps that faint heart never won fair lady. "Some women would make use of your attentions, your money, and your private boxes, as long as possible; but I will say this of myself, I know there is not much to be said in my favour, I never do what I feel to be ungenerous or wrong. I shall receive you with pleasure as a friend at any time; but if you were to sit down and sigh for a twelvemonth, you would never get any further. No speeches, now! You are an interesting young man whom thousands of amiable women would like, and life is short. L'amour ne se commande pas, perhaps you are going to tell me; and my answer is, that I am sure it cannot long survive hope, and for you indeed there is none."

Freeling blushed and looked melancholy and undecided.

"Shake hands and forgive me," said I, "Allons. Un peu de philosophie, mon ami. Que vaut la belle, qui détourne la bouche? How ridiculous a fine, tall, well-looking young man like you will appear, sitting under one of the willow-trees, in the Green Park!"

Freeling smiled.

"There now, I see it is over already," I continued, and changed the subject, which Freeling had the good sense and good taste never to renew; and what is more, the good heart to take an opportunity of doing me a very essential service, some months afterwards, when I believed he had forgotten me altogether.

"And pray, madam," the reader may ask, "how came you to be such a monster, as to call this kind, generous-hearted man a bore, and a general postman, some time ago?"

I do not know I am sure; I really am very sorry for it now; but then the book never will be finished, if I am to stop to make corrections and alterations; moreover, Stockdale has run away with that part of my manuscript: so to proceed——

Some short time after this mighty elopement, the Duke of Wellington, who, I presume, had discovered the tough qualities of his heart, which contributed to obtain him such renown in the field of battle, possessed no more merit for home service or ladies' uses than did his good digestion, betook himself again to the wars. He called to take a hasty leave of me a few hours before his departure.

"I am off for Spain directly," said Wellington.

I know not how it was but I grew melancholy. Wellington had relieved me from many duns, which else had given me vast uneasiness. I saw him there, perhaps for the last time in my life. Ponsonby was nothing to me, and out of town; in fact, I had been in bad spirits all the morning, and strange, but very true, and he remembers it still, when I was about to say, "God bless you, Wellington!" I burst into tears. They appeared to afford rather an unusual unction to his soul, and his astonishment seemed to me not quite unmixed with gratitude.

"If you change your home," said Wellington, kissing my cheek, "let me find your address at Thomas's Hotel, as soon as I come to England; and, if you want anything in the meantime, write to Spain; and do not cry; and take care of yourself: and do not cut me when I come back."

"Do you hear?" said Wellington; first wiping away some of my tears with my handkerchief; and then, kissing my eyes, he said, "God bless you!" and hurried away.

Argyle continued to correspond with me; but, if one might judge from the altered style of his letters, Wellington had made a breach in his grace's late romantic sentiments in my favour. Breach-making was Wellington's trade, you know; and little as men of Argyle's nation might be expected to care about breeches, yet the idea of Wellington often made him sigh; and sometimes he whistled, which, with Argyle, was just the same thing.

I forgot to mention, that, on the day after I met a certain great man at Julia's house, my servant informed me a gentleman in the parlour desired to speak to me.

"Why do not you bring his name?" said I.

"The gentleman says it does not signify," was my footman's answer.

"Go, and tell him that I think it does signify; and that I will not receive people who are ashamed either of me or themselves."

The man hesitated.

"Stay," said I, "I will put it down for you," and I wrote what I had said on a bit of paper.

My servant brought me back the paper, on the blank side of which was written, with a pencil, one word.

I sent it down again, with these words written underneath the word, on purpose to put him in a passion, "Don't know anybody in that shire."

The servant returned once more, with one of his lordship's printed cards, assuring me the gentleman in the parlour was walking about in a great passion.

I desired him to be shown upstairs; and, when he entered, I stood up, as though waiting to hear why he intruded on me.

"I believe, madam," said his lordship, "some apology is due to you from me."

"Are you going to tell me that you were tipsy, when you last did me the favour to mistake my house for an inn, or something worse?"

"No! certainly not," answered the peer.

"Were you quite sober?"

"Perfectly."

"Then your late conduct admits of no apology, and you could offer none which would not humble and greatly wound my pride, to avoid which I must take the liberty of wishing you a good morning."

I then rang my bell and left him.

More than a month had now elapsed since Lord Ponsonby left London, and I perceived no signs of his return. Yet I never forgot him, although half the fine young men in town were trying to please me. Amy continued to give her parties, but soberly; that is to say, Sydenham insisted on having his house quiet before three in the morning. One evening, when Fanny and Julia dined with me, I got up from my table to open my window, and I saw Lord Ponsonby, who was slowly riding by my house, with his face turned towards my window. This time there could be no doubt as to his blushing. My happiness was now of a nature too pure to be trifled with, and I know I could not endure to have it intruded on by any commonplace remarks. I kept his appearance therefore a profound secret; although I found it the most difficult thing possible to talk on any other subject, I thought these women never would have left me. They took their leave however at last; but not till near twelve o'clock.

I could not sleep a wink all night! At nine the next morning I rang my bell, being quite worn out with attempting it. My maid entered my room with a letter, which had just arrived by the twopenny post. It was as follows;

"I have long been very desirous to make your acquaintance: will you let me? A friend of mine has told me something about you; but I am afraid you were then only laughing at me; et il se peut, qu'un homme passé, ne soit bon que pour cela! I hope, at all events, that you will write me one line, to say you forgive me, and direct it to my house in town.

"P."

I will not attempt to describe all I felt on the receipt of this first epistle from Lord Ponsonby. I am now astonished at that infatuation, which could render a girl like me possessed certainly of a very feeling, affectionate heart, thus thoughtless and careless of the fate of another: and that other a young, innocent and lovely wife! Had anybody reminded me that I was now about to inflict perhaps the deepest wound in the breast of an innocent wife, I hope and believe I should have stopped there; and then what pain and bitter anguish I had been spared; but I declare to my reader that Lady Fanny Ponsonby never once entered my head.

I had seen little or nothing of the world. I never possessed a really wise friend, to set me right, advise or admonish me. My mother had ever seemed happiest in my father's absence, nor did she vex or trouble herself to watch his steps; and I did not know, or at all events I did not think, my seeking Lord Ponsonby's acquaintance would be likely to injure any one of my fellow creatures; or I am sure such a reflection must have embittered that pure state of happiness I now enjoyed.

This was my answer to Lord Ponsonby's letter:

"For the last five months I have scarcely lived but in your sight, and everything I have done or wished, or hoped or thought about, has had a reference to you and your happiness. Now tell me what you wish.

"HARRIETTE."

Reply:

"I fancy, though we never met, that you and I are in fact acquainted, and understand each other perfectly. If I do not affect to disbelieve you, you will not say I am vain; and when I tell you that we cannot meet immediately, owing to a very severe domestic calamity, you will not say I am cold. In the meantime will you write to me? The little watch I have got for you, I am not quite satisfied with. I have seen one in better taste, and flatter. But my poor father is dying and counts the minutes of my absence, or I could have found one to please you. However, you will keep this for my sake. I will leave it myself at your house this evening. I can scarcely describe to you how exhausted I am; for I have passed the whole of the three last nights by the bedside of my sick father, without rest. I know he will have your prayers. At midnight, let us pray for him, together. He has been suffering more than five months. Adieu, dear Harriette."

Lord Ponsonby's solitary rides with his dog, his paleness, and that melancholy expression of countenance, which at once interested me so deeply, were now accounted for. During three weeks more we corresponded daily. His father continued to exist, and that was all. I learned from his lordship's letters that, on the night we saw him for a few moments at the opera, his father was pronounced out of danger, and country-air was recommended to him, which, having produced no favourable change, nothing now could save him. My happiness, while that correspondence went on, was the purest, the most exalted, and the least allied to sensuality, of any I ever experienced in my life. Ponsonby, I conceived, was now mine, by right mine, by that firm courage which made me feel ready to endure any imaginable evil for his sake. I was morally certain that nothing in existence could love Lord Ponsonby, or could feel the might and majesty of his peculiarly intellectual beauty as I did.

"My beloved," so he wrote to me at last, "my spirits and health fail me; they are worn out and exhausted, with this close confinement. My poor father no longer suffers, or is scarcely sensible. My brother George will take my place by his bedside. Let us meet this evening, and you will console me. I shall go to you at nine."

Lord Ponsonby was then coming to me at last! I began to fear the expression of his eyes, so penetrating, so very bright. I began to think myself under the influence of a dream, and that he was not coming; then I feared sudden death would deprive me of him. I heard the knock, and his footsteps on the stairs; and then that most godlike head uncovered, that countenance, so pale, so still, and so expressive, the mouth of such perfect loveliness; the fine clear, transparent, dark skin. I looked earnestly in his face, I watched for that characteristic blush which made me fancy his body thought, to be certain of my own happiness! and then my overflowing heart was relieved by a flood of tears.

"My dear, dear, little Harriette," said Ponsonby, drawing me towards him, and passing his arm softly round my waist, "let us be happy now we are met." My smile must have been expressive of the most heartfelt felicity; yet our happiness was of that tranquil nature which is nearer allied to melancholy than to mirth. We conversed together all night, with my head resting on his shoulder. An age could not have made us better acquainted! Ponsonby's health and spirits were evidently quite exhausted by anxiety and want of rest. Neither of us desired anything, while thus engaged in conversation. Yes, perhaps, I did, as my eyes were fixed, for hours, on his beautiful and magnificent countenance, feel my own lips almost tremble, as I thought they would be pressed to his, and Ponsonby seemed to understand and feel my wishes, for he said, in answer to nothing but the expression of my eyes—

"No, not to night! I could not bear your kiss to night. We will dream about it till to-morrow."

Ponsonby assured me, in the course of our tête-à-tête, that the first time he had seen me, was one day when I lived at Somers-town two years before. For three or four days after that, he could think of nothing else. He met me with Argyle again, and wished to forget me; but, added he, "I, being the shyest poor wretch in the world, have ever held anything like notoriety in the greatest dread. I abhor it! therefore, when you came out at the opera, and I heard all the fine young men talking about you, it was not so difficult to forget you; and yet, though you did not see me, I was always looking at you, and trying to hear some one talk about you. When we met latterly in the Park, there was something so natural and unaffected, and wild, about your manner, that I began to forget your notoriety."

Ponsonby then told me all about the poor old woman to whom I had given half a crown in the Park; but what he said on that head was far too flattering for me to repeat. It was past five in the morning when we separated.

"You are so ill and fatigued," said I, "dear Ponsonby, that I will not let you come to me to-morrow night."

"Oh, but I must!" answered Ponsonby.

"Indeed you must rest."

"Impossible!" he replied.

We made no professions of love to each other—not one; for we were as certain, as of our existence, that we were mutually adored; and yet we passed the night together, and parted, without a kiss, to meet early the following evening.