The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume V

by Aphra Behn

THE LUCKY MISTAKE.

[ TO GEORGE GREENVIEL, ESQ;]

Sir,

At this Critical Juncture, I find the Authors will have need of a Protector, as well as the Nation, we having peculiar Laws and Liberties to be defended as well as that, but of how different a Nature, none but such Judges as you are fit to determine; whatever our Province be, I am sure it should be Wit, and you know what Ellevated Ben says, That none can judge of Wit but Wit. Let the Heroes toyl for Crowns and Kingdoms and with what pretences they please. Let the Slaves of State drudge on for false and empty Glories, troubling the repose of the World and ruining their own to gain uneasy Grandure, whilst you, oh! happyer Sir, great enough by your Birth, yet more Illustrious by your Wit, are capable of enjoying alone that true Felicity of Mind, which belongs to an absolutely Vertuous and Gallant Man, by that, and the lively Notions of Honour Imprinted in your Soul, you are above Ambition, and can Form Kings and Heroes, when ’ere your delicate Fancy shall put you upon the Poetical Creation.

You can make those Heroes Lovers too, and inspire ’em with a Language so Irresistable as may instruct the Fair, how easily you may Conquer when it comes to your turn, to plead for a Heart, nor is your delicate Wit the only Charm; your Person claims an equal share of Graces with those of your Mind, and both together are capable of rendering you Victorious, whereever you shall please to Address ’em, but your Vertue keeps you from those Ravages of Beauty, which so wholly imploy the hours of the Rest of the Gay and Young, whilst you have business more sollid, and more noble for yours.

I would not by this have the World imagine you are therefore exempt from the tenderness of Love, it rather seems you were on purpose form’d for that Soft Entertainment, such an Agreement there is between the Harmony of your Soul and your Person, and sure the Muses who have so divinely inspir’d you with Poetic Fires, have furnisht you with that Necessary Material (Love) to maintain it, and to make it burn with the more Ellevated Flame.

’Tis therefore, Sir, I expect you will the more easily Pardon the Dedicating to your idler hours (if any such you have) this little Amour, all that I shall say for it, is, that ’tis not Translation but an Original, that has more of realty than fiction, if I have not made it fuller of intreague, ’twas because I had a mind to keep close to the Truth.

I must own, Sir, the Obligations I have to you, deserves a greater testimony of my respect, than this little piece, too trivial to bear the honour of your Name, but my increasing Indisposition makes me fear I shall not have many opportunities of this Kind, and shou’d be loath to leave this ungrateful World, without acknowledging my Gratitude more signally than barely by word of Mouth, and without wishing you all the happiness your merit and admirable Vertues deserve and of assuring you how unfeignedly I am (and how Proud of being) Sir,

Your most obliged and
most humble servant
A. Behn.

[ THE LUCKY MISTAKE:]
A New Novel.

The River Loyre has on its delightful Banks abundance of handsome, beautiful and rich Towns and Villages, to which the noble Stream adds no small Graces and Advantages, blessing their Fields with Plenty, and their Eyes with a thousand Diversions. In one of these happily situated Towns, called Orleans, where abundance of People of the best Quality and Condition reside, there was a rich Nobleman, now retir’d from the busy Court, where in his Youth he had been bred, weary’d with the Toils of Ceremony and Noise, to enjoy that perfect Tranquillity of Life, which is no where to be found but in Retreat, a faithful Friend, and a good Library; and, as the admirable Horace says, in a little House and a large Garden. Count Bellyaurd, for so was this Nobleman call’d, was of this Opinion; and the rather, because he had one only Son, called Rinaldo, now grown to the Age of fifteen, who having all the excellent Qualities and Graces of Youth by Nature, he would bring him up in all Virtues and noble Sciences, which he believ’d the Gaiety and Lustre of the Court might divert: he therefore in his Retirement spar’d no Cost to those that could instruct and accomplish him; and he had the best Tutors and Masters that could be purchased at Court: Bellyaurd making far less Account of Riches than of fine Parts. He found his Son capable of all Impressions, having a Wit suitable to his delicate Person, so that he was the sole Joy of his Life, and the Darling of his Eyes.

In the very next House, which join’d close to that of Bellyaurd’s, there lived another Count, who had in his Youth been banished the Court of France for some Misunderstandings in some high Affairs wherein he was concern’d: his Name was De Pais, a Man of great Birth, but of no Fortune; or at least one not suitable to the Grandeur of his Original. And as it is most natural for great Souls to be most proud (if I may call a handsome Disdain by that vulgar Name) when they are most depress’d; so De Pais was more retir’d, more estrang’d from his Neighbours, and kept a greater Distance, than if he had enjoy’d all he had lost at Court; and took more Solemnity and State upon him, because he would not be subject to the Reproaches of the World, by making himself familiar with it: So that he rarely visited; and, contrary to the Custom of those in France, who are easy of Access, and free of Conversation, he kept his Family retir’d so close, that ’twas rare to see any of them; and when they went abroad, which was but seldom, they wanted nothing as to outward Appearance, that was fit for his Quality, and what was much above his Condition.

This old Count had two only Daughters, of exceeding Beauty, who gave the generous Father ten thousand Torments, as often as he beheld them, when he consider’d their extreme Beauty, their fine Wit, their Innocence, Modesty, and above all their Birth; and that he had not a Fortune to marry them according to their Quality; and below it, he had rather see them laid in their silent Graves, than consent to it: for he scorn’d the World should see him forced by his Poverty to commit an Action below his Dignity.

There lived in a neighbouring Town, a certain Nobleman, Friend to De Pais, call’d Count Vernole, a Man of about forty years of Age, of low Stature, Complexion very black and swarthy, lean, lame, extreme proud and haughty; extracted of a Descent from the Blood-Royal; not extremely brave, but very glorious: he had no very great Estate, but was in Election of a greater, and of an Addition of Honour from the King, his Father having done most worthy Services against the Hugonots, and by the high Favour of Cardinal Mazarine, was represented to his Majesty, as a Man related to the Crown, of great Name, but small Estate: so that there were now nothing but great Expectations and Preparations in the Family of Count Vernole to go to the Court, to which he daily hoped an Invitation or Command.

Vernole’s Fortune being hitherto something a-kin to that of De Pais, there was a greater Correspondency between these two Gentlemen, than they had with any other Persons; they accounting themselves above the rest of the World, believed none so proper and fit for their Conversation, as that of each other: so that there was a very particular Intimacy between them. Whenever they went abroad, they clubb’d their Train, to make one great Show; and were always together, bemoaning each other’s Fortune, and that from so high a Descent, as one from Monarchs by the Mother’s side, and the other from Dukes of the Father’s Side, they were reduc’d by Fate to the Degree of private Gentlemen. They would often consult how to manage Affairs most to Advantage, and often De Pais would ask Counsel of Vernole, how best he should dispose of his Daughters, which now were about their ninth Year the eldest, and eighth the youngest. Vernole had often seen those two Buds of Beauty, and already saw opening in Atlante’s Face and Mind (for that was the Name of the eldest, and Charlot the youngest) a Glory of Wit and Beauty, which could not but one Day display it self, with dazling Lustre, to the wondring World.

Vernole was a great Virtuoso, of a Humour nice, delicate, critical and opinionative: he had nothing of the French Mein in him, but all the Gravity of the Don. His ill-favour’d Person, and his low Estate, put him out of Humour with the World; and because that should not upbraid or reproach his Follies and Defects, he was sure to be beforehand with that, and to be always satirick upon it; and lov’d to live and act contrary to the Custom and Usage of all Mankind besides.

He was infinitely delighted to find a Man of his own Humour in De Pais, or at least a Man that would be persuaded to like his so well, to live up to it; and it was no little Joy and Satisfaction to him to find, that he kept his Daughters in that Severity, which was wholly agreeable to him, and so contrary to the Manner and Fashion of the French Quality; who allow all Freedoms, which to Vernole’s rigid Nature, seem’d as so many Steps to Vice, and in his Opinion, the Ruiner of all Virtue and Honour in Womankind. De Pais was extremely glad his Conduct was so well interpreted, which was no other in him than a proud Frugality; who, because they could not appear in so much Gallantry as their Quality required, kept ’em retir’d, and unseen to all, but his particular Friends, of whom Vernole was the chief.

Vernole never appear’d before Atlante (which was seldom) but he assum’d a Gravity and Respect fit to have entertain’d a Maid of Twenty, or rather a Matron of much greater Years and Judgment. His Discourses were always of Matters of State or Philosophy; and sometimes when De Pais would (laughing) say, ‘He might as well entertain Atlante with Greek and Hebrew,’ he would reply gravely, ‘You are mistaken, Sir, I find the Seeds of great and profound Matter in the Soul of this young Maid, which ought to be nourish’d now while she is young, and they will grow up to very great Perfection: I find Atlante capable of the noble Virtues of the Mind, and am infinitely mistaken in my Observations, and Art of Physiognomy, if Atlante be not born for greater Things than her Fortune does now Promise: She will be very considerable in the World, (believe me) and this will arrive to her perfectly from the Force of her Charms.’ De Pais was extremely overjoy’d to hear such Good prophesied of Atlante, and from that Time set a sort of an Esteem upon her, which he did not on Charlot his younger; whom, by the Persuasions of Vernole, he resolv’d to put in a Monastery, that what he had might descend to Atlante: not but he confess’d Charlot had Beauty extremely attractive, and a Wit that promised much, when it should be cultivated by Years and Experience; and would shew it self with great Advantage and Lustre in a Monastery. All this pleased De Pais very well, who was easily persuaded, since he had not a Fortune to marry her well in the World.

As yet Vernole had never spoke to Atlante of Love, nor did his Gravity think it Prudence to discover his Heart to so young a Maid; he waited her more sensible Years, when he could hope to have some Return. And all he expected from this her tender Age, was by his daily Converse with her, and the Presents he made her suitable to her Years, to ingratiate himself insensibly into her Friendship and Esteem, since she was not yet capable of Love; but even in that he mistook his Aim, for every day he grew more and more disagreeable to Atlante, and would have been her absolute Aversion, had she known she had every Day entertained a Lover; but as she grew in Years and Sense, he seemed the more despicable in her Eyes as to his Person; yet as she had respect to his Parts and Qualities, she paid him all the Complaisance she could, and which was due to him, and so must be confess’d. Tho’ he had a stiff Formality in all he said and did, yet he had Wit and Learning, and was a great Philosopher. As much of his Learning as Atlante was capable of attaining to, he made her Mistress of, and that was no small Portion; for all his Discourse was fine and easily comprehended, his Notions of Philosophy fit for Ladies; and he took greater Pains with Atlante, than any Master would have done with a Scholar: So that it was most certain, he added very great Accomplishment to her natural Wit: and the more, because she took a great Delight in Philosophy; which very often made her impatient of his Coming, especially when she had many Questions to ask him concerning it, and she would often receive him with a Pleasure in her Face, which he did not fail to interpret to his own Advantage, being very apt to flatter himself. Her Sister Charlot would often ask her, ‘How she could give whole Afternoons to so disagreeable a Man. What is it (said she) that charms you so? his tawny Leather-Face, his extraordinary high Nose, his wide Mouth and Eye-brows, that hang low’ring over his Eyes, his lean Carcase, and his lame and halting Hips?’ But Atlante would discreetly reply, ‘If I must grant all you say of Count Vernole to be true, yet he has a Wit and Learning that will atone sufficiently for all those Faults you mention: A fine Soul is infinitely to be preferr’d to a fine Body; this decays, but that’s eternal; and Age that ruins one, refines the other.’ Tho’ possibly Atlante thought as ill of the Count as her Sister, yet in Respect to him, she would not own it.

Atlante was now arriv’d to her thirteenth Year, when her Beauty, which every Day increas’d, became the Discourse of the whole Town, which had already gain’d her as many Lovers as had beheld her; for none saw her without languishing for her, or at least, but what were in very great Admiration of her. Every body talk’d of the young Atlante, and all the Noblemen, who had Sons (knowing the Smallness of her Fortune, and the Lustre of her Beauty) would send them, for fear of their being charm’d with her Beauty, either to some other part of the World, or exhorted them, by way of Precaution, to keep out of her Sight. Old Bellyaurd was one of those wise Parents; and timely Prevention, as he thought, of Rinaldo’s falling in Love with Atlante, perhaps was the Occasion of his being so: He had before heard of Atlante, and of her Beauty, yet it had made no Impressions on his Heart; but his Father no sooner forbid him Loving, than he felt a new Desire tormenting him, of seeing this lovely and dangerous young Person: he wonders at his unaccountable Pain, which daily sollicits him within, to go where he may behold this Beauty; of whom he frames a thousand Ideas, all such as were most agreeable to him; but then upbraids his Fancy for not forming her half so delicate as she was; and longs yet more to see her, to know how near she approaches to the Picture he has drawn of her in his Mind: and tho’ he knew she liv’d the next House to him, yet he knew also she was kept within like a vow’d Nun, or with the Severity of a Spaniard. And tho’ he had a Chamber, which had a jutting Window, that look’d just upon the Door of Monsieur De Pais, and that he would watch many Hours at a time, in hope to see them go out, yet he could never get a Glimpse of her; yet he heard she often frequented the Church of our Lady. Thither then young Rinaldo resolv’d to go, and did so two or three Mornings; in which time, to his unspeakable Grief, he saw no Beauty appear that charm’d him; and yet he fancy’d that Atlante was there, and that he had seen her; that some one of those young Ladies that he saw in the Church was she, tho’ he had no body to enquire of, and that she was not so fair as the World reported; for which he would often sigh, as if he had lost some great Expectation. However, he ceased not to frequent this Church, and one day saw a young Beauty, who at first glimpse made his Heart leap to his Mouth, and fall a trembling again into its wonted Place; for it immediately told him, that that young Maid was Atlante: she was with her Sister Charlot, who was very handsome, but not comparable to Atlante. He fix’d his Eyes upon her as she kneel’d at the Altar; he never moved from that charming Face as long as she remain’d there; he forgot all Devotion, but what he paid to her; he ador’d her, he burnt and languished already for her, and found he must possess Atlante or die. Often as he gaz’d upon her, he saw her fair Eyes lifted up towards his, where they often met; which she perceiving, would cast hers down into her Bosom, or on her Book, and blush as if she had done a Fault. Charlot perceiv’d all the Motions of Rinaldo, how he folded his Arms, how he sigh’d and gaz’d on her Sister; she took notice of his Clothes, his Garniture, and every particular of his Dress, as young Girls use to do; and seeing him so very handsome, and so much better dress’d than all the young Cavaliers that were in the Church, she was very much pleas’d with him; and could not forbear saying, in a low Voice, to Atlante, ‘Look, look my Sister, what a pretty Monsieur yonder is! see how fine his Face is, how delicate his Hair, how gallant his Dress! and do but look how he gazes on you!’ This would make Atlante blush anew, who durst not raise her Eyes for fear she should encounter his. While he had the Pleasure to imagine they were talking of him, and he saw in the pretty Face of Charlot, that what she said was not to his Disadvantage, and by the Blushes of Atlante, that she was not displeas’d with what was spoken to her; he perceiv’d the young one importunate with her; and Atlante jogging her with her Elbow, as much as to say, Hold your Peace: all this he made a kind Interpretation of, and was transported with Joy at the good Omens. He was willing to flatter his new Flame, and to compliment his young Desire with a little Hope; but the divine Ceremony ceasing, Atlante left the Church, and it being very fair Weather, she walk’d home. Rinaldo, who saw her going, felt all the Agonies of a Lover, who parts with all that can make him happy; and seeing only Atlante attended with her Sister, and a Footman following with their Books, he was a thousand times about to speak to ’em; but he no sooner advanc’d a step or two towards ’em to that purpose (for he followed them) but his Heart fail’d, and a certain Awe and Reverence, or rather the Fears and Tremblings of a Lover, prevented him: but when he consider’d, that possibly he might never have so favourable an Opportunity again, he resolv’d a-new, and called up so much Courage to his Heart, as to speak to Atlante; but before he did so, Charlot looking behind her, saw Rinaldo very near to ’em, and cry’d out with a Voice of Joy, ‘Oh! Sister, Sister! look where the handsome Monsieur is, just behind us! sure he is some-body of Quality, for see he has two Footmen that follow him, in just such Liveries, and so rich as those of our Neighbour Monsieur Bellyaurd.’ At this Atlante could not forbear, but before she was aware of it, turn’d her Head, and look’d on Rinaldo; which encourag’d him to advance, and putting off his Hat, which he clapt under his Arm, with a low Bow, said, ‘Ladies, you are slenderly attended, and so many Accidents arrive to the Fair in the rude Streets, that I humbly implore you will permit me, whose Duty it is as a Neighbour, to wait on you to your Door.’ ‘Sir, (said Atlante blushing) we fear no Insolence, and need no Protector; or if we did, we should not be so rude to take you out of your way, to serve us.’ ‘Madam, (said he) my way lies yours. I live at the next Door, and am Son to Bellyaurd, your Neighbour. But, Madam, (added he) if I were to go all my Life out of the way, to do you Service, I should take it for the greatest Happiness that could arrive to me; but, Madam, sure a Man can never be out of his Way, who has the Honour of so charming Company.’ Atlante made no reply to this, but blush’d and bow’d: But Charlot said, ‘Nay, Sir, if you are our Neighbour, we will give you leave to conduct us home; but pray, Sir, how came you to know we are your Neighbours? for we never saw you before, to our knowledge.’ ‘My pretty Miss, (reply’d Rinaldo) I knew it from that transcendent Beauty that appear’d in your Faces, and fine Shapes; for I have heard, there was no Beauty in the World like that of Atlante’s; and I no sooner saw her, but my Heart told me it was she.’ ‘Heart! (said Charlot laughing) why, do Hearts use to speak?’ ‘The most intelligible of any thing, (Rinaldo reply’d) when ’tis tenderly touch’d, when ’tis charm’d and transported.’ At these Words he sigh’d, and Atlante, to his extreme Satisfaction, blush’d. ‘Touch’d, charm’d, and transported, (said Charlot) what’s that? And how do you do to have it be all these things? For I would give any thing in the World to have my Heart speak.’ ‘Oh! (said Rinaldo) your Heart is too young, it is not yet arrived to the Years of Speaking; about thirteen or fourteen, it may possibly be saying a thousand soft things to you; but it must be first inspir’d by some noble Object, whose Idea it must retain.’ ‘What (reply’d the pretty Prattler) I’ll warrant I must be in Love?’ ‘Yes, (said Rinaldo) most passionately, or you will have but little Conversation with your Heart.’ ‘Oh! (reply’d she) I am afraid the Pleasure of such a Conversation, will not make me amends for the Pain that Love will give me.’ ‘That (said Rinaldo) is according as the Object is kind, and as you hope; if he love, and you hope, you will have double Pleasure: And in this, how great an Advantage have fair Ladies above us Men! ’Tis always impossible for you to love in vain, you have your Choice of a thousand Hearts, which you have subdu’d, and may not only chuse your Slaves, but be assur’d of ’em; without speaking, you are belov’d, it needs not cost you a Sigh or a Tear: But unhappy Man is often destin’d to give his Heart, where it is not regarded, to sigh, to weep, and languish, without any hope of Pity.’ ‘You speak so feelingly, Sir, (said Charlot) that I am afraid this is your Case.’ ‘Yes, Madam, (reply’d Rinaldo, sighing) I am that unhappy Man.’ ‘Indeed it is pity (said she.) Pray, how long have you been so?’ ‘Ever since I heard of the charming Atlante, (reply’d he, sighing again) I ador’d her Character; but now I have seen her, I die for her.’ ‘For me, Sir! (said Atlante, who had not yet spoke) this is the common Compliment of all the young Men, who pretend to be Lovers; and if one should pity all those Sighers, we should have but very little left for our selves.’ ‘I believe (said Rinaldo) there are none that tell you so, who do not mean as they say: Yet among all those Adorers, and those who say they will die for you, you will find none will be so good as their Words but Rinaldo.’ ‘Perhaps (said Atlante) of all those who tell me of Dying, there are none that tell me of it with so little Reason as Rinaldo, if that be your Name, Sir.’ ‘Madam, it is, (said he) and who am transported with an unspeakable Joy, to hear those last Words from your fair Mouth: and let me, Oh lovely Atlante! assure you, that what I have said, are not Words of course, but proceed from a Heart that has vow’d it self eternally yours, even before I had the Happiness to behold this divine Person; but now that my Eyes have made good all my Heart before imagin’d, and did but hope, I swear, I will die a thousand Deaths, rather than violate what I have said to you; that I adore you; that my Soul and all my Faculties, are charm’d with your Beauty and Innocence, and that my Life and Fortune, not inconsiderable, shall be laid at your Feet.’ This he spoke with a Fervency of Passion, that left her no Doubt of what he had said; yet she blush’d for Shame, and was a little angry at her self, for suffering him to say so much to her, the very first time she saw him, and accused her self for giving him any Encouragement: And in this Confusion she replied, ‘Sir, you have said too much to be believ’d; and I cannot imagine so short an Acquaintance can make so considerable an Impression; of which Confession I accuse my self much more than you, in that I did not only hearken to what you said, without forbidding you to entertain me at that rate, but for unheedily speaking something, that has encourag’d this Boldness; for so I must call it, in a Man so great a Stranger to me.’ ‘Madam (said he) if I have offended by the Suddenness of my presumptuous Discovery, I beseech you to consider my Reasons for it, the few Opportunities I am like to have, and the Impossibility of waiting on you, both from the Severity of your Father and mine; who, ere I saw you, warn’d me of my Fate, as if he foresaw I should fall in love, as soon as I should chance to see you; and for that Reason has kept me closer to my Studies, than hitherto I have been. And from that time I began to feel a Flame, which was kindled by Report alone, and the Description my Father gave of your wondrous and dangerous Beauty: Therefore, Madam, I have not suddenly told you of my Passion. I have been long your Lover, and have long languish’d without telling of my Pain; and you ought to pardon it now, since it is done with all the Respect and religious Awe, that ’tis possible for a Heart to deliver and unload it self in; therefore, Madam, if you have by chance uttered any thing, that I have taken Advantage or Hope from, I assure you ’tis so small, that you have no reason to repent it; but rather, if you would have me live, send me not from you, without a Confirmation of that little Hope. See, Madam, (said he, more earnestly and trembling) see we are almost arriv’d at our Homes, send me not to mine in a Despair that I cannot support with Life; but tell me, I shall be bless’d with your Sight, sometimes in your Balcony, which is very near to a jetting Window in our House, from whence I have sent many a longing Look towards yours, in hope to have seen my Soul’s Tormentor.’ ‘I shall be very unwilling (said she) to enter into an Intrigue of Love or Friendship with a Man, whose Parents will be averse to my Happiness, and possibly mine as refractory, tho’ they cannot but know such an Alliance would be very considerable, my Fortune not being suitable to yours: I tell you this, that you may withdraw in time from an Engagement, in which I find there will be a great many Obstacles.’ ‘Oh! Madam, (reply’d Rinaldo, sighing) if my Person be not disagreeable to you, you will have no occasion to fear the rest; ’tis that I dread, and that which is all my Fear.’ He, sighing, beheld her with a languishing Look, that told her, he expected her Answer; when she reply’d, ‘Sir, if that will be Satisfaction enough for you at this time, I do assure you, I have no Aversion for your Person, in which I find more to be valu’d, than in any I have yet seen; and if what you say be real, and proceed from a Heart truly affected, I find, in spite of me, you will oblige me to give you Hope.’

They were come so near their own Houses, that he had not time to return her any Answer; but with a low Bow he acknowledg’d her Bounty, and express’d the Joy her last Words had given him, by a Look that made her understand he was charm’d and pleas’d; and she bowing to him with an Air of Satisfaction in her Face, he was well assur’d, there was nothing to be seen so lovely as she then appear’d, and left her to go into her own House: but till she was out of sight, he had not power to stir, and then sighing, retired to his own Apartment, to think over all that had past between them. He found nothing but what gave him a thousand Joys, in all she had said; and he blest this happy Day, and wondred how his Stars came so kind, to make him in one hour at once see Atlante, and have the happiness to know from her Mouth, that he was not disagreeable to her: Yet with this Satisfaction, he had a thousand Thoughts mix’d which were tormenting, and those were the Fear of their Parents; he foresaw from what his Father had said to him already, that it would be difficult to draw him to a Consent of his Marriage with Atlante. These Joys and Fears were his Companions all the Night, in which he took but little Rest. Nor was Atlante without her Inquietudes: She found Rinaldo more in her Thoughts than she wish’d, and a sudden Change of Humour, that made her know something was the matter with her more than usual; she calls to mind Rinaldo’s speaking of the Conversation with his Heart, and found hers would be tattling to her, if she would give way to it; and yet the more she strove to avoid it, the more it importun’d her, and in spight of all her Resistance, would tell her, that Rinaldo had a thousand Charms: It tells her, that he loves and adores her, and that she would be the most cruel of her Sex, should she not be sensible of his Passion. She finds a thousand Graces in his Person and Conversation, and as many Advantages in his Fortune, which was one of the most considerable in all those Parts; for his Estate exceeded that of the most Noble Men in Orleans, and she imagines she should be the most fortunate of all Womankind in such a Match. With these Thoughts she employ’d all the Hours of the Night; so that she lay so long in Bed the next Day, that Count Vernole, who had invited himself to Dinner, came before she had quitted her Chamber, and she was forc’d to say, she had not been well. He had brought her a very fine Book, newly come out, of delicate Philosophy, fit for the Study of Ladies. But he appear’d so disagreeable to that Heart, wholly taken up with a new and fine Object, that she could now hardly pay him that Civility she was wont to do; while on the other side that little State and Pride Atlante assum’d, made her appear the more charming to him: so that if Atlante had no mind to begin a new Lesson of Philosophy, while she fancied her Thoughts were much better employ’d, the Count every moment expressing his Tenderness and Passion, had as little an Inclination to instruct her, as she had to be instructed: Love had taught her a new Lesson, and he would fain teach her a new Lesson of Love, but fears it will be a diminishing his Gravity and Grandeur, to open the Secrets of his Heart to so young a Maid; he therefore thinks it more agreeable to his Quality and Years, being about Forty, to use her Father’s Authority in this Affair, and that it was sufficient for him to declare himself to Monsieur De Pais, who he knew would be proud of the Honour he did him. Some time past, before he could be persuaded even to declare himself to her Father: he fancies the little Coldness and Pride he saw in Atlante’s Face, which was not usual, proceeded from some Discovery of Passion, which his Eyes had made, or now and then a Sigh, that unawares broke forth; and accuses himself of a Levity below his Quality, and the Dignity of his Wit and Gravity; and therefore assumes a more rigid and formal Behaviour than he was wont, which rendred him yet more disagreeable than before; and ’twas with greater Pain than ever, she gave him that Respect which was due to his Quality.

Rinaldo, after a restless Night, was up very early in the Morning; and tho’ he was not certain of seeing his adorable Atlante, he dress’d himself with all that Care, as if he had been to have waited on her, and got himself into the Window, that overlook’d Monsieur De Pais’s Balcony, where he had not remain’d long, before he saw the pretty Charlot come into it, not with any design of seeing Rinaldo, but to look and gaze about her a little. Rinaldo saw her, and made her a very low Reverence, and found some disorder’d Joy on the sight of even Charlot, since she was Sister to Atlante. He call’d to her, (for the Window was so near her, he could easily be heard by her) and told her, ‘He was infinitely indebted to her Bounty, for giving him an Opportunity yesterday of falling on that Discourse, which had made him the happiest Man in the World’: He said, ‘If she had not by her agreeable Conversation encourag’d him, and drawn him from one Word to another, he should never have had the Confidence to have told Atlante, how much he ador’d her.’ ‘I am very glad, (replyed Charlot) that I was the Occasion of the Beginning of an Amour, which was displeasing to neither one nor the other; for I assure you for your Comfort, my Sister nothing but thinks on you: We lie together, and you have taught her already to sigh so, that I could not sleep for her.’ At this his Face was cover’d over with a rising Joy, which his Heart could not contain: And after some Discourse, in which this innocent Girl discovered more than Atlante wish’d she should, he besought her to become his Advocate; and since she had no Brother, to give him leave to assume that Honour, and call her Sister. Thus, by degrees, he flatter’d her into a Consent of carrying a Letter from him to Atlante; which she, who believ’d all as innocent as her self, and being not forbid to do so, immediately consented to; when he took his Pen and Ink, that stood in the Window, with Paper, and wrote Atlante this following Letter:

RINALDO to ATLANTE.

If my Fate be so severe, as to deny me the Happiness of sighing out my Pain and Passion daily at your Feet, if there be any Faith in the Hope you were pleased to give me (as ’twere a Sin to doubt) Oh charming Atlante! suffer me not to languish, both without beholding you, and without the Blessing of now and then a Billet, in answer to those that shall daily assure you of my eternal Faith and Vows; ’tis all I ask, till Fortune, and our Affairs, shall allow me the unspeakable Satisfaction of claiming you: yet if your Charity can sometimes afford me a sight of you, either from your Balcony in the Evening, or at a Church in the Morning, it would save me from that Despair and Torment, which must possess a Heart so unassur’d, as that of

Your Eternal Adorer,
Rin. Bellyaurd.

He having writ and seal’d this, toss’d it into the Balcony to Charlot, having first look’d about to see if none perceiv’d them. She put it in her Bosom, and ran in to her Sister, whom by chance she found alone; Vernole having taken De Pais into the Garden, to discourse him concerning the sending Charlot to the Monastery, which Work he desir’d to see perform’d, before he declar’d his Intentions to Atlante: for among all his other good Qualities, he was very avaricious; and as fair as Atlante was, he thought she would be much fairer with the Addition of Charlot’s Portion. This Affair of his with Monsieur De Pais, gave Charlot an opportunity of delivering her Letter to her Sister; who no sooner drew it from her Bosom, but Atlante’s Face was covered over with Blushes: For she imagin’d from whence it came, and had a secret Joy in that Imagination, tho’ she thought she must put on the Severity and Niceness of a Virgin, who would not be thought to have surrendered her Heart with so small an Assault, and the first too. So she demanded from whence Charlot had that Letter? Who replyed with Joy, ‘From the fine young Gentleman, our Neighbour.’ At which Atlante assum’d all the Gravity she could, to chide her Sister; who replied, ‘Well, Sister, had you this day seen him, you would not have been angry to have receiv’d a Letter from him; he look’d so handsome, and was so richly dress’d, ten times finer than he was yesterday; and I promis’d him you should read it: therefore, pray let me keep my Word with him; and not only so, but carry him an Answer.’ ‘Well (said Atlante) to save your Credit with Monsieur Rinaldo, I will read it’: Which she did, and finish’d with a Sigh. While she was reading, Charlot ran into the Garden, to see if they were not likely to be surpriz’d; and finding the Count and her Father set in an Arbour, in deep Discourse, she brought Pen, Ink, and Paper to her Sister, and told her, she might write without the Fear of being disturbed: and urged her so long to what was enough her Inclination, that she at last obtained this Answer:

ATLANTE to RINALDO.

Charlot, your little importunate Advocate, has at last subdued me to a Consent of returning you This. She has put me on an Affair with which I am wholly unacquainted; and you ought to take this very kindly from me, since it is the very first time I ever writ to one of your Sex, tho’ perhaps I might with less Danger have done it to any other Man. I tremble while I write, since I dread a Correspondence of this Nature, which may insensibly draw us into an Inconvenience, and engage me beyond the Limits of that Nicety I ought to preserve: For this Way we venture to say a thousand little kind Things, which in Conversation we dare not do: for now none can see us blush. I am sensible I shall this Way put my self too soon into your Power; and tho’ you have abundance of Merit, I ought to be asham’d of confessing, I am but too sensible of it:—But hold—I shall discover for your Repose (which I would preserve) too much of the Heart of

Atlante.

She gave this Letter to Charlot; who immediately ran into the Balcony with it, where she still found Rinaldo in a melancholy Posture, leaning his Head on his Hand: She shewed him the Letter, but was afraid to toss it to him, for fear it might fall to the Ground; so he ran and fetched a long Cane, which he cleft at one End, and held it while she put the Letter into the Cleft, and staid not to hear what he said to it. But never was Man so transported with Joy, as he was at the reading of this Letter; it gives him new Wounds; for to the Generous, nothing obliges Love so much as Love: tho’ it is now too much the Nature of that inconstant Sex, to cease to love as soon as they are sure of the Conquest. But it was far different with our Cavalier; he was the more inflamed, by imagining he had made some Impressions on the Heart of Atlante, and kindled some Sparks there, that in time might increase to something more; so that he now resolves to die hers: and considering all the Obstacles that may possibly hinder his Happiness, he found none but his Father’s Obstinacy, perhaps occasioned by the Meanness of Atlante’s Fortune. To this he urged again, that he was his only Son, and a Son whom he loved equal to his own Life; and that certainly, as soon as he should behold him dying for Atlante, which if he were forc’d to quit her he must be, he then believed the Tenderness of so fond a Parent would break forth into Pity, and plead within for his Consent. These were the Thoughts that flatter’d this young Lover all the Day; and whether he were riding the Great Horse, or at his Study of Philosophy, or Mathematicks, Singing, Dancing, or whatsoever other Exercise his Tutors ordered, his Thoughts were continually on Atlante. And now he profited no more, whatever he seem’d to do: every Day he fail’d not to write to her by the Hand of the kind Charlot; who, young as she was, had conceiv’d a great Friendship for Rinaldo, and fail’d not to fetch her Letters, and bring him Answers, such as he wish’d to receive. But all this did not satisfy our impatient Lover; Absence kill’d, and he was no longer able to support himself, without a sight of this adorable Maid; he therefore implores, she will give him that Satisfaction: And she at last grants it, with a better Will than he imagin’d. The next Day was the appointed Time, when she would, under Pretence of going to Church, give him an Assignation: And because all publick Places were dangerous, and might make a great Noise, and they had no private Place to trust to, Rinaldo, under Pretence of going up the River in his Pleasure-Boat, which he often did, sent to have it made ready by the next Day at Ten of the Clock. This was accordingly done, and he gave Atlante Notice of his Design of going an Hour or two on the River in his Boat, which lay near to such a Place, not far from the Church. She and Charlot came thither: and because they durst not come out without a Footman or two, they taking one, sent him with a How-do-ye to some young Ladies, and told him, he should find them at Church: So getting rid of their Spy, they hastened to the River-side, and found a Boat and Rinaldo, waiting to carry them on board his little Vessel, which was richly adorn’d, and a very handsome Collation ready for them, of cold Meats, Sallads and Sweetmeats.

As soon as they were come into the Pleasure-Boat, unseen of any, he kneel’d at the Feet of Atlante, and there utter’d so many passionate and tender Things to her, with a Voice so trembling and soft, with Eyes so languishing, and a Fervency and a Fire so sincere, that her young Heart, wholly uncapable of Artifice, could no longer resist such Language, and such Looks of Love; she grows tender, and he perceives it in her fine Eyes, who could not dissemble; he reads her Heart in her Looks, and found it yielding apace; and therefore assaults it anew, with fresh Forces of Sighs and Tears: He implores she would assure him of her Heart, which she could no other way do, than by yielding to marry him: He would carry her to the next Village, there consummate that Happiness, without which he was able to live no longer; for he had a thousand Fears, that some other Lover was, or would suddenly be provided for her; and therefore he would make sure of her while he had this Opportunity: and to that End, he answer’d all the Objections she could make to the contrary. But ever, when he named Marriage, she trembled, with fear of doing something that she fancy’d she ought not to do without the Consent of her Father. She was sensible of the Advantage, but had been so us’d to a strict Obedience, that she could not without Horror think of violating it; and therefore besought him, as he valued her Repose, not to urge her to that: And told him further, That if he fear’d any Rival, she would give him what other Assurance and Satisfaction he pleas’d, but that of Marriage; which she could not consent to, till she knew such an Alliance would not be fatal to him: for she fear’d, as passionately as he lov’d her, when he should find she had occasion’d him the Loss of his Fortune, or his Father’s Affection, he would grow to hate her. Tho’ he answer’d to this all that a fond Lover could urge, yet she was resolv’d, and he forc’d to content himself with obliging her by his Prayers and Protestations, his Sighs and Tears, to a Contract, which they solemnly made each other, vowing on either Side, they would never marry any other. This being solemnly concluded, he assum’d a Look more gay and contented than before: He presented her a very rich Ring, which she durst not put on her Finger, but hid it in her Bosom. And beholding each other now as Man and Wife, she suffer’d him all the decent Freedoms he could wish to take; so that the Hours of this Voyage seem’d the most soft and charming of his Life: and doubtless they were so; every Touch of Atlante transported him, every Look pierced his Soul, and he was all Raptures of Joy, when he consider’d this charming lovely Maid was his own.

Charlot all this while was gazing above-deck, admiring the Motion of the little Vessel, and how easily the Wind and Tide bore her up the River. She had never been in any thing of this kind before, and was very well pleas’d and entertain’d, when Rinaldo call’d her down to eat; where they enjoy’d themselves, as well as was possible: and Charlot was wondring to see such a Content in their Eyes.

But now they thought it was high time for them to return; they fancy the Footman missing them at Church, would go home and alarm their Father, and the Knight of the Ill-favour’d Countenance, as Charlot call’d Count Vernole, whose Severity put their Father on a greater Restriction of them, than naturally he would do of himself. At the Name of this Count, Rinaldo chang’d Colour, fearing he might be some Rival; and ask’d Atlante, if this Vernole was a-kin to her? She answer’d no; but was a very great Friend to her Father, and one who from their Infancy had had a particular Concern for their Breeding, and was her Master for Philosophy. ‘Ah! (reply’d Rinaldo, sighing) this Man’s Concern must proceed from something more than Friendship for her Father’; and therefore conjur’d her to tell him, whether he was not a Lover: ‘A Lover! (reply’d Atlante) I assure you, he is a perfect Antidote against that Passion’: And tho’ she suffer’d his ugly Presence now, she should loathe and hate him, should he but name Love to her.

She said, she believed she need not fear any such Persecution, since he was a Man who was not at all amorous; that he had too much of the Satire in his Humour, to harbour any Softness there: and Nature had form’d his Body to his Mind, wholly unfit for Love. And that he might set his Heart absolutely at rest, she assur’d him her Father had never yet propos’d any Marriage to her, tho’ many advantageous ones were offer’d him every Day.

The Sails being turned to carry them back from whence they came; after having discoursed of a thousand Things, and all of Love, and Contrivance to carry on their mutual Design, they with Sighs parted; Rinaldo staying behind in the Pleasure-Boat, and they going a-shore in the Wherry that attended: after which he cast many an amorous and sad Look, and perhaps was answer’d by those of Atlante.

It was past Church-time two or three Hours, when they arrived at home, wholly unprepar’d with an Excuse, so absolutely was Atlante’s Soul possest with softer Business. The first Person that they met was the Footman, who open’d the Door, and began to cry out how long he had waited in the Church, and how in vain; without giving them time to reply. De Pais came towards ’em, and with a frowning Look demanded where they had been? Atlante, who was not accustom’d to Excuses and Untruth, was a while at a stand; when Charlot with a Voice of Joy cry’d out, ‘Oh Sir! we have been a-board of a fine little Ship’: At this Atlante blush’d, fearing she would tell the Truth. But she proceeded on, and said, that they had not been above a Quarter of an Hour at Church, when the Lady ——, with some other Ladies and Cavaliers, were going out of the Church, and that spying them, they would needs have ’em go with ’em: My Sister, Sir, continu’d she, was very loth to go, for fear you should be angry; but my Lady —— was so importunate with her on one side, and I on the other, because I never saw a little Ship in my Life, that at last we prevail’d with her: therefore, good Sir, be not angry. He promised them he was not. And when they came in, they found Count Vernole, who had been inspiring De Pais with Severity, and counselled him to chide the young Ladies, for being too long absent, under Pretence of going to their Devotion. Nor was it enough for him to set the Father on, but himself with a Gravity, where Concern and Malice were both apparent, reproached Atlante with Levity; and told her, He believed she had some other Motive than the Invitation of a Lady, to go on Ship-board; and that she had too many Lovers, not to make them doubt that this was a design’d thing; and that she had heard Love from some one, for whom it was design’d. To this she made but a short Reply, That if it was so, she had no reason to conceal it, since she had Sense enough to look after herself; and if any body had made love to her, he might be assur’d, it was some one whose Quality and Merit deserved to be heard: and with a Look of Scorn, she passed on to another Room, and left him silently raging within with Jealousy: Which, if before she tormented him, this Declaration increas’d it to a pitch not to be conceal’d. And this Day he said so much to the Father, that he resolv’d forthwith to send Charlot to a Nunnery: and accordingly the next day he bid her prepare to go. Charlot, who was not yet arrived to the Years of Distinction, did not much regret it; and having no Trouble but leaving her Sister, she prepared to go to a Nunnery, not many Streets from that where she dwelt. The Lady Abbess was her Father’s Kinswoman, and had treated her very well, as often as she came to visit her: so that with Satisfaction enough, she was condemned to a Monastick Life, and was now going for her Probation-Year. Atlante was troubled at her Departure, because she had no body to bring and to carry Letters between Rinaldo and she: however, she took her leave of her, and promis’d to come and see her as often as she should be permitted to go abroad; for she fear’d now some Constraint extraordinary would be put upon her: and so it happened.

Atlante’s Chamber was that to which the Balcony belong’d; and tho’ she durst not appear there in the Daytime, she could in the Night, and that way give her Lover as many Hours of Conversation as she pleased, without being perceiv’d: But how to give Rinaldo notice of this, she could not tell; who not knowing Charlot was gone to a Monastery, waited many days at his Window to see her: at last, they neither of them knowing who to trust with any Message, one day, when he was, as usual upon his watch, he saw Atlante step into the Balcony, who having a Letter, in which she had put a piece of Lead, she tost it into his Window, whose Casement was open, and run in again unperceived by any but himself. The Paper contained only this:

My Chamber is that which looks into the Balcony; from whence, tho’ I cannot converse with you in the Day, I can at Night, when I am retired to go to bed: therefore be at your Window.   Farewel.

There needed no more to make him a diligent Watcher: and accordingly she was no sooner retired to her Chamber, but she would come into the Balcony, where she fail’d not to see him attending at his Window. This happy Contrivance was thus carry’d on for many Nights, where they entertain’d one another with all the Endearment that two Hearts could dictate, who were perfectly united and assur’d of each other; and this pleasing Conversation would often last till Day appear’d, and forced them to part.

But old Bellyaurd perceiving his Son frequent that Chamber more than usual, fancy’d something extraordinary must be the Cause of it; and one night asking for his Son, his Valet told him, he was gone into the great Chamber, so this was called: Bellyaurd asked the Valet what he did there; he told him he could not tell; for often he had lighted him thither, and that his Master would take the Candle from him at the Chamber-Door, and suffer him to go no farther. Tho’ the old Gentleman could not imagine what Affairs he could have alone every Night in that Chamber, he had a Curiosity to see: and one unlucky Night, putting off his Shoes, he came to the Door of the Chamber, which was open; he enter’d softly, and saw the Candle set in the Chimney, and his Son at a great open Bay-Window: he stopt awhile to wait when he would turn, but finding him unmoveable, he advanced something farther, and at last heard the soft Dialogue of Love between him and Atlante, whom he knew to be she, by his often calling her by her Name in their Discourse. He heard enough to confirm him how Matters went; and unseen as he came, he returned, full of Indignation, and thought how to prevent so great an Evil, as this Passion of his Son might produce: at first he thought to round him severely in the Ear about it, and upbraid him for doing the only thing he had thought fit to forbid him; but then he thought that would but terrify him for awhile, and he would return again, where he had so great an Inclination, if he were near her; he therefore resolves to send him to Paris, that by Absence he might forget the young Beauty that had charm’d his Youth. Therefore, without letting Rinaldo know the Reason, and without taking Notice that he knew any thing of his Amour, he came to him one day, and told him, all the Masters he had for the improving him in noble Sciences were very dull, or very remiss: and that he resolved he should go for a Year or two to the Academy at Paris. To this the Son made a thousand Evasions; but the Father was positive, and not to be persuaded by all his Reasons: And finding he should absolutely displease him if he refus’d to go, and not daring to tell him the dear Cause of his Desire to remain at Orleans, he therefore, with a breaking Heart, consents to go, nay, resolves it, tho’ it should be his Death. But alas! he considers that this Parting will not only prove the greatest Torment upon Earth to him, but that Atlante will share in his Misfortunes also: This Thought gives him a double Torment, and yet he finds no Way to evade it.

The Night that finished this fatal Day, he goes again to his wonted Station, the Window; where he had not sighed very long, but he saw Atlante enter the Balcony: He was not able a great while to speak to her, or to utter one Word. The Night was light enough to see him at the wonted Place; and she admires at his Silence, and demands the Reason in such obliging Terms as adds to his Grief; and he, with a deep Sigh, reply’d, ‘Urge me not, my fair Atlante, to speak, lest by obeying you I give you more cause of Grief than my Silence is capable of doing’: and then sighing again, he held his peace, and gave her leave to ask the Cause of these last Words. But when he made no Reply but by sighing, she imagin’d it much worse than indeed it was; and with a trembling and fainting Voice, she cried, ‘Oh! Rinaldo, give me leave to divine that cruel News you are so unwilling to tell me: It is so,’ added she, ‘you are destin’d to some more fortunate Maid than Atlante.’ At this Tears stopped her Speech, and she could utter no more. ‘No, my dearest Charmer (reply’d Rinaldo, elevating his Voice) if that were all, you should see with what Fortitude I would die, rather than obey any such Commands. I am vow’d yours to the last Moment of my Life; and will be yours in spite of all the Opposition in the World: that Cruelty I could evade, but cannot this that threatens me.’ ‘Ah! (cried Atlante) let Fate do her worst, so she still continue Rinaldo mine, and keep that Faith he hath sworn to me entire: What can she do beside, that can afflict me?’ ‘She can separate me (cried he) for some time from Atlante.’ ‘Oh! (reply’d she) all Misfortunes fall so below that which I first imagin’d, that methinks I do not resent this, as I should otherwise have done: but I know, when I have a little more consider’d it, I shall even die with the Grief of it; Absence being so great an Enemy to Love, and making us soon forget the Object belov’d: This, tho’ I never experienc’d, I have heard, and fear it may be my Fate.’ He then convinc’d her Fears with a thousand new Vows, and a thousand Imprecations of Constancy. She then asked him, ‘If their Loves were discover’d, that he was with such haste to depart?’ He told her, ‘Nothing of that was the Cause; and he could almost wish it were discover’d, since he could resolutely then refuse to go: but it was only to cultivate his Mind more effectually than he could do here; ’twas the Care of his Father to accomplish him the more; and therefore he could not contradict it. But (said he) I am not sent where Seas shall part us, nor vast Distances of Earth, but to Paris, from whence he might come in two Days to see her again; and that he would expect from that Balcony, that had given him so many happy Moments, many more when he should come to see her.’ He besought her to send him away with all the Satisfaction she could, which she could no otherwise do, than by giving him new Assurances that she would never give away that Right he had in her to any other Lover: She vows this with innumerable Tears; and is almost angry with him for questioning her Faith. He tells her he has but one Night more to stay, and his Grief would be unspeakable, if he should not be able to take a better leave of her, than at a Window; and that, if she would give him leave, he would by a Rope or two, tied together, so as it may serve for Steps, ascend her Balcony; he not having time to provide a Ladder of Ropes. She tells him she has so great a Confidence in his Virtue and Love, that she will refuse him nothing, tho’ it would be a very bold Venture for a Maid, to trust her self with a passionate young Man, in silence of Night: and tho’ she did not extort a Vow from him to secure her, she expected he would have a care of her Honour. He swore to her, his Love was too religious for so base an Attempt. There needed not many Vows to confirm her Faith; and it was agreed on between them, that he should come the next Night into her Chamber.

It happen’d that Night, as it often did, that Count Vernole lay with Monsieur De Pais, which was in a Ground-Room, just under that of Atlante’s. As soon as she knew all were in bed, she gave the word to Rinaldo, who was attending with the Impatience of a passionate Lover below, under the Window; and who no sooner heard the Balcony open, but he ascended with some difficulty, and enter’d the Chamber, where he found Atlante trembling with Joy and Fear: He throws himself at her Feet, as unable to speak as she; who nothing but blushed and bent down her Eyes, hardly daring to glance them towards the dear Object of her Desires, the Lord of all her Vows: She was asham’d to see a Man in her Chamber, where yet none had ever been alone, and by Night too. He saw her Fear, and felt her trembling; and after a thousand Sighs of Love had made way for Speech, he besought her to fear nothing from him, for his Flame was too sacred, and his Passion too holy to offer any thing but what Honour with Love might afford him. At last he brought her to some Courage, and the Roses of her fair Cheeks assum’d their wonted Colour, not blushing too red, nor languishing too pale. But when the Conversation began between them, it was the softest in the world: They said all that parting Lovers could say; all that Wit and Tenderness could express: They exchanged their Vows anew; and to confirm his, he tied a Bracelet of Diamonds about her Arm, and she returned him one of her Hair, which he had long begged, and she had on purpose made, which clasped together with Diamonds; this she put about his Arm, and he swore to carry it to his Grave. The Night was far spent in tender Vows, soft Sighs and Tears on both sides, and it was high time to part: but, as if Death had been to have arrived to them in that Minute, they both linger’d away the time, like Lovers who had forgot themselves; and the Day was near approaching when he bid farewel, which he repeated very often: for still he was interrupted by some commanding Softness from Atlante, and then lost all his Power of going; till she, more courageous and careful of his Interest and her own Fame, forc’d him from her: and it was happy she did, for he was no sooner got over the Balcony, and she had flung him down his Rope, and shut the Door, but Vernole, whom Love and Contrivance kept waking, fancy’d several times he heard a Noise in Atlante’s Chamber. And whether in passing over the Balcony, Rinaldo made any Noise or not, or whether it were still his jealous Fancy, he came up in his Night-Gown, with a Pistol in his Hand. Atlante was not so much lost in Grief, tho’ she were all in Tears, but she heard a Man come up, and imagin’d it had been her Father, she not knowing of Count Vernole’s lying in the House that Night; if she had, she possibly had taken more care to have been silent; but whoever it was, she could not get to bed soon enough, and therefore turn’d her self to her Dressing-Table, where a Candle stood, and where lay a Book open of the Story of Ariadne and Theseus. The Count turning the Latch, enter’d halting into her Chamber in his Night-Gown clapped close about him, which betray’d an ill-favour’d Shape, his Night-Cap on, without a Perriwig, which discover’d all his lean wither’d Jaws, his pale Face, and his Eyes staring: and made altogether so dreadful a Figure, that Atlante, who no more dreamt of him than of a Devil, had possibly have rather seen the last. She gave a great Shriek, which frighted Vernole; so both stood for a while staring on each other, till both were recollected: He told her the Care of her Honour had brought him thither; and then rolling his small Eyes round the Chamber, to see if he could discover any body, he proceeded, and cry’d, ‘Madam, if I had no other Motive than your being up at this time of Night, or rather of Day, I could easily guess how you have been entertain’d.’ ‘What Insolence is this (said she, all in a rage) when to cover your Boldness of approaching my Chamber at this Hour, you would question how I have been entertain’d! Either explain your self, or quit my Chamber; for I do not use to see such terrible Objects here.’ ‘Possibly those you do see (said the Count) are indeed more agreeable, but I am afraid have not that Regard to your Honour as I have’: And at that word he stepped to the Balcony, open’d it, and look’d out; but seeing no body, he shut it to again. This enraged Atlante beyond all Patience; and snatching the Pistol out of his Hand, she told him, He deserved to have it aimed at his Head, for having the Impudence to question her Honour, or her Conduct; and commanded him to avoid her Chamber as he lov’d his Life, which she believ’d he was fonder of than of her Honour. She speaking this in a Tone wholly transported with Rage, and at the same time holding the Pistol towards him, made him tremble with Fear; and he now found, whether she were guilty or not, it was his turn to beg Pardon: For you must know, however it came to pass that his Jealousy made him come up in that fierce Posture, at other times Vernole was the most tame and passive Man in the World, and one who was afraid of his own Shadow in the Night: He had a natural Aversion for Danger, and thought it below a Man of Wit, or common Sense, to be guilty of that brutal thing, called Courage or Fighting; His Philosophy told him, It was safe sleeping in a whole Skin; and possibly he apprehended as much Danger from this Virago, as ever he did from his own Sex. He therefore fell on his Knees, and besought her to hold her fair Hand, and not to suffer that, which was the greatest Mark of his Respect, to be the Cause of her Hate or Indignation. The pitiful Faces he made, and the Signs of Mortal Fear in him, had almost made her laugh, at least it allay’d her Anger; and she bid him rise and play the fool hereafter somewhere else, and not in her Presence; yet for once she would deign to give him this Satisfaction, that she was got into a Book, which had many moving Stories very well writ; and that she found her self so well entertain’d, she had forgot how the Night passed. He most humbly thanked her for this Satisfaction, and retired, perhaps not so well satisfied as he pretended.

After this, he appear’d more submissive and respectful towards Atlante; and she carry’d herself more reserv’d and haughty towards him; which was one Reason, he would not yet discover his Passion.

Thus the Time run on at Orleans, while Rinaldo found himself daily languishing at Paris. He was indeed in the best Academy in the City, amongst a Number of brave and noble Youths, where all things that could accomplish them, were to be learn’d by those that had any Genius; but Rinaldo had other Thoughts, and other Business: his Time was wholly past in the most solitary Parts of the Garden, by the melancholy Fountains, and in the most gloomy Shades, where he could with most Liberty breathe out his Passion and his Griefs. He was past the Tutorage of a Boy; and his Masters could not upbraid him, but found he had some secret Cause of Grief, which made him not mind those Exercises, which were the Delight of the rest: so that nothing being able to divert his Melancholy, which daily increased upon him, he fear’d it would bring him into a Fever, if he did not give himself the Satisfaction of seeing Atlante. He had no sooner thought of this, but he was impatient to put it in execution; he resolved to go (having very good Horses) without acquainting any of his Servants with it. He got a very handsom and light Ladder of Ropes made, which he carry’d under his Coat, and away he rid for Orleans, stay’d at a little Village, till the Darkness of the Night might favour his Design: And then walking about Atlante’s Lodgings, till he saw a Light in her Chamber, and then making that Noise on his Sword, as was agreed between them, he was heard by his adorable Atlante, and suffer’d to mount her Chamber, where he would stay till almost break of Day, and then return to the Village, and take Horse, and away for Paris again. This, once in a Month, was his Exercise, without which he could not live; so that his whole Year was past in riding between Orleans and Paris, between Excess of Grief, and Excess of Joy by turns.

It was now that Atlante, arrived to her fifteenth Year, shone out with a Lustre of Beauty greater than ever; and in this Year, in the Absence of Rinaldo, had carry’d herself with that Severity of Life, without the youthful Desire of going abroad, or desiring any Diversion, but what she found in her own retired Thoughts, that Vernole, wholly unable longer to conceal his Passion, resolv’d to make a Publication of it, first to the Father, and then to the lovely Daughter, of whom he had some Hope, because she had carry’d her self very well towards him for this Year past; which she would never have done, if she had imagin’d he would ever have been her Lover: She had seen no Signs of any such Misfortune towards her in these many Years he had conversed with her, and she had no Cause to fear him. When one Day her Father taking her into the Garden, told her what Honour and Happiness was in store for her; and that now the Glory of his fall’n Family would rise again, since she had a Lover of an illustrious Blood, ally’d to Monarchs; and one whose Fortune was newly encreased to a very considerable Degree, answerable to his Birth. She changed Colour at this Discourse, imagining but too well who this illustrious Lover was; when De Pais proceeded and told her, ‘Indeed his Person was not the most agreeable that ever was seen: but he marry’d her to Glory and Fortune, not the Man: And a Woman (says he) ought to look no further.’

She needed not any more to inform her who this intended Husband was; and therefore, bursting forth into Tears, she throws herself at his Feet, imploring him not to use the Authority of a Father, to force her to a thing so contrary to her Inclination: assuring him, she could not consent to any such thing; and that she would rather die than yield. She urged many Arguments for this her Disobedience; but none would pass for current with the old Gentleman, whose Pride had flatter’d him with Hopes of so considerable a Son-in-law: He was very much surpriz’d at Atlante’s refusing what he believ’d she would receive with Joy; and finding that no Arguments on his Side could draw hers to an obedient Consent, he grew to such a Rage, as very rarely possest him: vowing, if she did not conform her Will to his, he would abandon her to all the Cruelty of Contempt and Poverty: so that at last she was forced to return him this Answer, ‘That she would strive all she could with her Heart; but she verily believed she should never bring it to consent to a Marriage with Monsieur the Count.’ The Father continued threatning her, and gave her some Days to consider of it: So leaving her in Tears, he returned to his Chamber, to consider what Answer he should give Count Vernole, who he knew would be impatient to learn what Success he had, and what himself was to hope. De Pais, after some Consideration, resolved to tell him, she receiv’d the Offer very well, but that he must expect a little Maiden-Nicety in the Case: and accordingly did tell him so; and he was not at all doubtful of his good Fortune.

But Atlante, who resolved to die a thousand Deaths rather than break her solemn Vows to Rinaldo, or to marry the Count, cast about how she should avoid it with the least Hazard of her Father’s Rage. She found Rinaldo the better and more advantageous Match of the two, could they but get his Father’s Consent: He was beautiful and young; his Title was equal to that of Vernole, when his Father should die; and his Estate exceeded his: yet she dares not make a Discovery, for fear she should injure her Lover; who at this Time, though she knew it not, lay sick of a Fever, while she was wondering that he came not as he used to do. However she resolves to send him a Letter, and acquaint him with the Misfortune; which she did in these Terms:

ATLANTE to RINALDO.

My Father’s Authority would force me to violate my sacred Vows to you, and give them to the Count Vernole, whom I mortally hate, yet could wish him the greatest Monarch in the World, that I might shew you I could even then despise him for your Sake. My Father is already too much enraged by my Denial, to hear Reason from me, if I should confess to him my Vows to you: So that I see nothing but a Prospect of Death before me; for assure your self, my Rinaldo, I will die rather than consent to marry any other: Therefore come my Rinaldo, and come quickly, to see my Funerals, instead of those Nuptials they vainly expect from

Your Faithful
ATLANTE.

This Letter Rinaldo receiv’d; and there needed no more to make him fly to Orleans: This raised him soon from his Bed of Sickness, and getting immediately to horse, he arrived at his Father’s House; who did not so much admire to see him, because he heard he was sick of a Fever, and gave him leave to return, if he pleas’d: He went directly to his Father’s House, because he knew somewhat of the Business, he was resolv’d to make his Passion known, as soon as he had seen Atlante, from whom he was to take all his Measures: He therefore fail’d not, when all were in Bed, to rise and go from his Chamber into the Street; where finding a Light in Atlante’s Chamber, for she every Night expected him, he made the usual Sign, and she went into the Balcony; and he having no Conveniency of mounting up into it, they discoursed, and said all they had to say. From thence she tells him of the Count’s Passion, of her Father’s Resolution, and that her own was rather to die his, than live any Body’s else: And at last, as their Refuge, they resolv’d to discover the whole Matter; she to her Father, and he to his, to see what Accommodation they could make; if not, to die together. They parted at this Resolve, for she would permit him no longer to stay in the Street after such a Sickness; so he went home to bed, but not to sleep.

The next Day, at Dinner, Monsieur Bellyaurd believing his Son absolutely cur’d, by Absence, of his Passion; and speaking of all the News in the Town, among the rest, told him he was come in good time to dance at the Wedding of Count Vernole with Atlante, the Match being agreed on: ‘No, Sir (reply’d Rinaldo) I shall never dance at the Marriage of Count Vernole with Atlante; and you will see in Monsieur De Pais’s House a Funeral sooner than a Wedding.’ And thereupon he told his Father all his Passion for that lovely Maid; and assur’d him, if he would not see him laid in his Grave, he must consent to this Match. Bellyaurd rose in a Fury, and told him, ‘He had rather see him in his Grave, than in the Arms of Atlante: Not (continued he) so much for any Dislike I have to the young Lady, or the Smallness of her Fortune; but because I have so long warn’d you from such a Passion, and have with such Care endeavour’d by your Absence to prevent it.’ He travers’d the Room very fast, still protesting against this Alliance: and was deaf to all Rinaldo could say. On the other side the Day being come, wherein Atlante was to give her final Answer to her Father concerning her Marriage with Count Vernole; she assum’d all the Courage and Resolution she could, to withstand the Storm that threatned a Denial. And her Father came to her, and demanding her Answer, she told him, ‘She could not be the Wife of Vernole, since she was Wife to Rinaldo, only son to Bellyaurd.’ If her Father storm’d before, he grew like a Man distracted at her Confession; and Vernole hearing them loud, ran to the Chamber to learn the Cause; where just as he enter’d he found De Pais’s Sword drawn, and ready to kill his Daughter, who lay all in Tears at his Feet. He with-held his Hand; and asking the Cause of his Rage, he was told all that Atlante had confess’d; which put Vernole quite beside all his Gravity, and made him discover the Infirmity of Anger, which he used to say ought to be dissembled by all wise Men: So that De Pais forgot his own to appease his, but ’twas in vain, for he went out of the House, vowing Revenge to Rinaldo: And to that end, being not very well assur’d of his own Courage, as I said before, and being of the Opinion, that no Man ought to expose his Life to him who has injur’d him; he hired Swiss and Spanish Soldiers to attend him in the nature of Footmen; and watch’d several Nights about Bellyaurd’s Door, and that of De Pais’s, believing he should some time or other see him under the Window of Atlante, or perhaps mounting into it: for now he no longer doubted, but this happy Lover was he, whom he fancy’d he heard go from the Balcony that Night he came up with his Pistol; and being more a Spaniard than a Frenchman in his Nature, he resolv’d to take him any way unguarded or unarm’d, if he came in his Way.

Atlante, who heard his Threatnings when he went from her in a Rage, fear’d his Cowardice might put him on some base Action, to deprive Rinaldo of his Life; and therefore thought it not safe to suffer him to come to her by Night, as he had before done; but sent him word in a Note, that he should forbear her Window, for Vernole had sworn his Death. This Note came, unseen by his Father, to his Hands: but this could not hinder him from coming to her Window, which he did as soon as it was dark: he came thither, only attended with his Valet, and two Footmen; for now he car’d not who knew the Secret. He had no sooner made the Sign, but he found himself incompass’d with Vernole’s Bravoes; and himself standing at a distance cry’d out, ‘That is he’: With that they all drew on both sides, and Rinaldo receiv’d a Wound in his Arm. Atlante heard this, and ran crying out, ‘That Rinaldo, prest by Numbers, would be kill’d.’ De Pais, who was reading in his Closet, took his Sword, and ran out; and, contrary to all Expectation, seeing Rinaldo fighting with his Back to the Door, pull’d him into the House, and fought himself with the Bravoes: who being very much wounded by Rinaldo, gave ground, and sheer’d off; and De Pais, putting up old Bilbo into the Scabbard, went into his House, where he found Rinaldo almost fainting with loss of Blood, and Atlante, with her Maids binding up his Wound; to whom De Pais said, ‘This charity, Atlante, very well becomes you, and is what I can allow you; and I could wish you had no other Motive for this Action.’ Rinaldo by degrees recover’d of his Fainting, and as well as his Weakness would permit him, he got up and made a low Reverence to De Pais, telling him, ‘He had now a double Obligation to pay him all the Respect in the World; first, for his being the Father of Atlante; and secondly, for being the Preserver of his Life: two Tyes that should eternally oblige him to love and honour him, as his own Parent.’ De Pais reply’d, ‘He had done nothing but what common Humanity compell’d him to do: But if he would make good that Respect he profess’d towards him, it must be in quitting all Hopes of Atlante, whom he had destin’d to another, or an eternal Inclosure in a Monastery: He had another Daughter, whom if he would think worthy of his Regard, he should take his Alliance as a very great Honour; but his Word and Reputation, nay his Vows were past, to give Atlante to Count Vernole.’ Rinaldo, who before he spoke took measure from Atlante’s Eyes, which told him her Heart was his, return’d this Answer to De Pais, ‘That he was infinitely glad to find by the Generosity of his Offer, that he had no Aversion against his being his Son-in-law; and that, next to Atlante, the greatest Happiness he could wish would be his receiving Charlot from his Hand; but that he could not think of quitting Atlante, how necessary soever it would be, for Glory, and his—(the further) Repose.’ De Pais would not let him at this time argue the matter further, seeing he was ill, and had need of looking after; he therefore begg’d he would for his Health’s sake retire to his own House, whither he himself conducted him, and left him to the Care of his Men, who were escap’d the Fray; and returning to his own Chamber, he found Atlante retir’d, and so he went to bed full of Thoughts. This Night had increas’d his Esteem for Rinaldo, and lessen’d it for Count Vernole; but his Word and Honour being past, he could not break it, neither with Safety nor Honour: for he knew the haughty resenting Nature of the Count, and he fear’d some Danger might arrive to the brave Rinaldo, which troubled him very much. At last he resolv’d, that neither might take any thing ill at his Hands, to lose Atlante, and send her to the Monastery where her Sister was, and compel her to be a Nun. This he thought would prevent Mischiefs on both sides; and accordingly, the next Day, (having in the Morning sent Word to the Lady Abbess what he would have done) he carries Atlante, under pretence of visiting her Sister, (which they often did) to the Monastery, where she was no sooner come, but she was led into the Inclosure: Her Father had rather sacrifice her, than she should be the Cause of the Murder of two such noble Men as Vernole and Rinaldo.

The Noise of Atlante’s being inclos’d, was soon spread all over the busy Town, and Rinaldo was not the last to whom the News arriv’d: He was for a few Days confin’d to his Chamber; where, when alone, he rav’d like a Man distracted; But his Wounds had so incens’d his Father against Atlante, that he swore he would see his Son die of them, rather than suffer him to marry Atlante; and was extremely overjoy’d to find she was condemn’d, for ever, to the Monastery. So that the Son thought it the wisest Course, and most for the advantage of his Love, to say nothing to contradict his Father; but being almost assur’d Atlante would never consent to be shut up in a Cloyster, and abandon him, he flatter’d himself with hope, that he should steal her from thence, and marry her in spite of all Opposition. This he was impatient to put in practice: He believ’d, if he were not permitted to see Atlante, he had still a kind Advocate in Charlot, who was now arriv’d to her Thirteenth Year, and infinitely advanc’d in Wit and Beauty. Rinaldo therefore often goes to the Monastery, surrounding it, to see what Possibility there was of accomplishing his Design; if he could get her Consent, he finds it not impossible, and goes to visit Charlot; who had command not to see him, or speak to him. This was a Cruelty he look’d not for, and which gave him an unspeakable Trouble, and without her Aid it was wholly impossible to give Atlante any account of his Design. In this Perplexity he remain’d many Days, in which he languish’d almost to Death; he was distracted with Thought, and continually hovering about the Nunnery-Walls, in hope, at some time or other, to see or hear from that lovely Maid, who alone could make his Happiness. In these Traverses he often met Vernole, who had Liberty to see her when he pleas’d: If it happen’d that they chanc’d to meet in the Daytime, tho’ Vernole was attended with an Equipage of Ruffians, and Rinaldo but only with a couple of Footmen, he could perceive Vernole shun him, grow pale, and almost tremble with Fear sometimes, and get to the other Side of the Street; and if he did not, Rinaldo having a mortal Hate to him, would often bear up so close to him, that he would jostle him against the Wall, which Vernole would patiently put up, and pass on; so that he could never be provok’d to fight by Day-light, how solitary soever the Place was where they met: but if they chanc’d to meet at Night, they were certain of a Skirmish, in which he would have no part himself; so that Rinaldo was often like to be assassinated, but still came off with some slight Wound. This continu’d so long, and made so great a Noise in the Town, that the two old Gentlemen were mightily alarm’d by it; and Count Bellyaurd came to De Pais, one Day, to discourse with him of this Affair; and Bellyaurd, for the Preservation of his Son, was almost consenting, since there was no Remedy, that he should marry Atlante. De Pais confess’d the Honour he proffer’d him, and how troubled he was, that his Word was already past to his Friend, the Count Vernole, whom he said she should marry, or remain for ever a Nun; but if Rinaldo could displace his Love from Atlante, and place it on Charlot, he should gladly consent to the Match. Bellyaurd, who would now do anything for the Repose of his Son, tho’ he believ’d this Exchange would not pass, yet resolv’d to propose it, since by marrying him he took him out of the Danger of Vernole’s Assassinates, who would never leave him till they had dispatch’d him, should he marry Atlante.

While Rinaldo was contriving a thousand ways to come to speak to, or send Billets to Atlante, none of which could succeed without the Aid of Charlot, his Father came and propos’d this Agreement between De Pais and himself, to his Son. At first Rinaldo receiv’d it with a chang’d Countenance, and a breaking Heart; but swiftly turning from Thought to Thought, he conceiv’d this the only way to come at Charlot, and so consequently at Atlante: he therefore, after some dissembled Regret, consents, with a sad put-on Look: And Charlot had Notice given her to see and entertain Rinaldo. As yet they had not told her the Reason; which her Father would tell her, when he came to visit her, he said. Rinaldo over-joy’d at this Contrivance, and his own Dissimulation, goes to the Monastery, and visits Charlot; where he ought to have said something of this Proposition: but wholly bent upon other Thoughts, he sollicits her to convey some Letters, and Presents to Atlante; which she readily did, to the unspeakable Joy of the poor Distrest. Sometimes he would talk to Charlot of her own Affairs; asking her, if she resolv’d to become a Nun? To which she would sigh, and say, If she must, it would be extremely against her Inclinations; and, if it pleas’d her Father, she had rather begin the World with any tolerable Match.

Things past thus for some Days, in which our Lovers were happy, and Vernole assur’d he should have Atlante. But at last De Pais came to visit Charlot, who ask’d her, if she had seen Rinaldo? She answer’d, ‘She had.’ ‘And how does he entertain you? (reply’d De Pais) Have you receiv’d him as a Husband? and has he behav’d himself like one?’ At this a sudden Joy seiz’d the Heart of Charlot; and both to confess what she had done for him to her Sister, she hung down her blushing Face to study for an Answer. De Pais continued, and told her the Agreement between Bellyaurd and him, for the saving of Bloodshed.

She, who blest the Cause, whatever it was, having always a great Friendship and Tenderness for Rinaldo, gave her Father a thousand Thanks for his Care; and assur’d him, since she was commanded by him, she would receive him as her Husband.

And the next Day, when Rinaldo came to visit her, as he us’d to do, and bringing a Letter with him, wherein he propos’d the flight of Atlante; he found a Coldness in Charlot, as soon as he told her his Design, and desir’d her to carry the Letter. He ask’d the Reason of this Change: She tells him she was inform’d of the Agreement between their two Fathers, and that she look’d upon herself as his Wife, and would act no more as a Confident; that she had ever a violent Inclination of Friendship for him, which she would soon improve into something more soft.

He could not deny the Agreement, nor his Promise; but it was in vain to tell her, he did it only to get a Correspondence with Atlante: She is obstinate, and he as pressing, with all the Tenderness of Persuasion: He vows he can never be any but Atlante’s, and she may see him die, but never break his Vows. She urges her Claim in vain, so that at last she was overcome, and promised she would carry the Letter; which was to have her make her Escape that Night. He waits at the Gate for her Answer, and Charlot returns with one that pleased him very well; which was, that Night her Sister would make her Escape, and that he must stand in such a Place of the Nunnery-Wall, and she would come out to him.

After this she upbraids him with his false Promise to her, and of her Goodness to serve him after such a Disappointment. He receives her Reproaches with a thousand Sighs, and bemoans her Misfortune in not being capable of more than Friendship for her; and vows, that next Atlante, he esteems her of all Womankind. She seems to be obliged by this, and assured him, she would hasten the Flight of Atlante; and taking leave, he went home to order a Coach, and some Servants to assist him.

In the mean time Count Vernole came to visit Atlante; but she refused to be seen by him: And all he could do there that Afternoon, was entertaining Charlot at the Grate; to whom he spoke a great many fine Things, both of her improved Beauty and Wit; and how happy Rinaldo would be in so fair a Bride. She received this with all the Civility that was due to his Quality; and their Discourse being at an End, he took his Leave, being towards the Evening.

Rinaldo, wholly impatient, came betimes to the Corner of the dead Wall, where he was appointed to stand, having ordered his Footmen and Coach to come to him as soon it was dark. While he was there walking up and down, Vernole came by the End of the Wall to go home; and looking about, he saw, at the other End, Rinaldo walking, whose Back was towards him, but he knew him well; and tho’ he feared and dreaded his Business there, he durst not encounter him, they being both attended but by one Footman a-piece. But Vernole’s Jealousy and Indignation were so high, that he resolved to fetch his Bravoes to his Aid, and come and assault him: For he knew he waited there for some Message from Atlante.

In the mean Time it grew dark, and Rinaldo’s Coach came with another Footman; which were hardly arrived, when Vernole, with his Assistants, came to the Corner of the Wall, and skreening themselves a little behind it, near to the Place where Rinaldo stood, who waited now close to a little Door, out of which the Gardeners used to throw the Weeds and Dirt, Vernole could perceive anon the Door to open, and a Woman come out of it, calling Rinaldo by his Name, who stept up to her, and caught her in his Arms with Signs of infinite Joy. Vernole being now all Rage, cry’d to his Assassinates, ‘Fall on, and kill the Ravisher’: And immediately they all fell on. Rinaldo, who had only his two Footmen on his Side, was forc’d to let go the Lady; who would have run into the Garden again, but the Door fell to and lock’d: so that while Rinaldo was fighting, and beaten back by the Bravoes, one of which he laid dead at his Feet, Vernole came to the frighted Lady, and taking her by the Hand, cry’d, ‘Come, my fair Fugitive, you must go along with me.’ She wholly scar’d out of her Senses, was willing to go any where out of the Terror she heard so near her, and without Reply, gave her self into his Hand, who carried her directly to her Father’s House; where she was no sooner come, but he told her Father all that had past, and how she was running away with Rinaldo, but that his good Fortune brought him just in the lucky Minute. Her Father turning to reproach her, found by the Light of a Candle that this was Charlot, and not Atlante, whom Vernole had brought Home: At which Vernole was extremely astonish’d. Her Father demanded of her why she was running away with a Man, who was design’d her by Consent? ‘Yes, (said Charlot) you had his Consent, Sir, and that of his Father; but I was far from getting it: I found he resolv’d to die rather than quit Atlante; and promising him my Assistance in his Amour, since he could never be mine, he got me to carry a Letter to Atlante; which was, to desire her to fly away with him. Instead of carrying her this Letter, I told her, he was design’d for me, and had cancell’d all his Vows to her: She swoon’d at this News; and being recover’d a little, I left her in the Hands of the Nuns, to persuade her to live; which she resolves not to do without Rinaldo. Tho’ they press’d me, yet I resolv’d to pursue my Design, which was to tell Rinaldo she would obey his kind Summons. He waited for her; but I put my self into his Hands in lieu of Atlante; and had not the Count receiv’d me, we had been marry’d by this time, by some false Light that could not have discover’d me: But I am satisfied, if I had, he would never have liv’d with me longer than the Cheat had been undiscover’d; for I find them both resolved to die, rather than change. And for my part, Sir, I was not so much in Love with Rinaldo, as I was out of love with the Nunnery; and took any Opportunity to quit a Life absolutely contrary to my Humour.’ She spoke this with a Gaiety so brisk, and an Air so agreeable, that Vernole found it touch’d his Heart; and the rather because he found Atlante would never be his; or if she were, he should be still in Danger from the Resentment of Rinaldo: he therefore bowing to Charlot, and taking her by the Hand, cry’d, ‘Madam, since Fortune has dispos’d you thus luckily for me, in my Possession, I humbly implore you would consent she should make me entirely happy, and give me the Prize for which I fought, and have conquer’d with my Sword.’ ‘My Lord, (reply’d Charlot, with a modest Air) I am superstitious enough to believe, since Fortune, so contrary to all our Designs, has given me into your Hands, that she from the beginning destin’d me to the Honour, which, with my Father’s Consent, I shall receive as becomes me.’ De Pais transported with Joy, to find all Things would be so well brought about, it being all one to him, whether Charlot or Atlante gave him Count Vernole for his Son-in-law, readily consented; and immediately a Priest was sent for, and they were that Night marry’d. And it being now not above seven o’Clock, many of their Friends were invited, the Musick sent for, and as good a Supper as so short a Time would provide, was made ready.

All this was perform’d in as short a time as Rinaldo was fighting; and having kill’d one, and wounded the rest, they all fled before his conquering Sword, which was never drawn with so good a Will. When he came where his Coach stood, just against the Back-Garden-Door, he looked for his Mistress: But the Coachman told him, he was no sooner engaged, but a Man came, and with a thousand Reproaches on her Levity, bore her off.

This made our young Lover rave; and he is satisfied she is in the Hands of his Rival, and that he had been fighting, and shedding his Blood, only to secure her Flight with him. He lost all Patience, and it was with much ado his Servants persuaded him to return; telling him in their Opinion, she was more likely to get out of the Hands of his Rival, and come to him, than when she was in the Monastery.

He suffers himself to go into his Coach and be carry’d home; but he was no sooner alighted, than he heard Musick and Noise at De Pais’s House. He saw Coaches surround his Door, and Pages and Footmen, with Flambeaux. The Sight and Noise of Joy made him ready to sink at the Door; and sending his Footmen to learn the Cause of this Triumph, the Pages that waited told him, That Count Vernole was this Night married to Monsieur De Pais’s Daughter. He needed no more to deprive him of all Sense; and staggering against his Coach, he was caught by his Footmen and carried into his House, and to his Chamber, where they put him to Bed, all sensless as he was, and had much ado to recover him to Life. He ask’d for his Father, with a faint Voice, for he desir’d to see him before he died. It was told him he was gone to Count Vernole’s Wedding, where there was a perfect Peace agreed on between them, and all their Animosities laid aside. At this News Rinaldo fainted again; and his Servants call’d his Father home, and told him in what Condition they had brought home their Master, recounting to him all that was past. He hasten’d to Rinaldo, whom he found just recover’d of his Swooning; who, putting his Hand out to his Father, all cold and trembling, cry’d, ‘Well, Sir, now you are satisfied, since you have seen Atlante married to Count Vernole, I hope now you will give your unfortunate Son leave to die; as you wish’d he should, rather than give him to the Arms of Atlante.’ Here his Speech fail’d, and he fell again into a Fit of Swooning; His Father ready to die with fear of his Son’s Death, kneel’d down by his Bed-side; and after having recover’d a little, he said, ‘My dear Son, I have been indeed at the Wedding of Count Vernole, but ’tis not Atlante to whom he is married, but Charlot; who was the Person you were bearing from the Monastery, instead of Atlante, who is still reserv’d for you, and she is dying till she hear you are reserv’d for her; Therefore, as you regard her Life, make much of your own, and make your self fit to receive her; for her Father and I have agreed the Marriage already.’ And without giving him leave to think, he call’d to one of his Gentlemen, and sent him to the Monastery, with this News to Atlante. Rinaldo bowed himself as low as he could in his Bed, and kiss’d the Hand of his Father, with Tears of Joy: But his Weakness continued all the next Day; and they were fain to bring Atlante to him, to confirm his Happiness.

It must only be guessed by Lovers, the perfect Joy these two receiv’d in the sight of each other. Bellyaurd received her as his Daughter; and the next Day made her so, with very great Solemnity, at which were Vernole and Charlot: Between Rinaldo and him was concluded a perfect Peace, and all thought themselves happy in this [double Union].

[ Notes: Critical and Explanatory:]
The Lucky Mistake.

[p. 351] This Dedication only appears in the first edition (12mo, 1689), ‘for R. Bentley’. George Granville or Grenville,[1] Lord Lansdowne, the celebrated wit, dramatist and poet, was born in 1667. Having zealously offered in 1688 to defend James II, during the subsequent reign he perforce ‘lived in literary retirement’. He then wrote The She Gallants (1696, and 4to, 1696), an excellent comedy full of jest and spirit. Offending, however, some ladies ‘who set up for chastity’ it made its exit. Granville afterwards revived it as Once a Lover and Always a Lover. Heroick Love, a tragedy (1698), had great success. The Jew of Venice (1701), is a piteously weak adaption of The Merchant of Venice. A short masque, Peleus and Thetis accompanies the play. The British Enchanters, an opera (1706), is a pleasing piece, and was very well received. At the accession of Queen Anne, Granville entered the political arena and attained considerable offices of state. Suspected of being an active Jacobite he was, under George I, imprisoned from 25 September, 1715, till 8 February, 1717. In 1722 he went abroad, and lived in Paris for ten years. In 1732 he returned and published a finely printed edition of his complete Works (2 Vols., 4to, 1732; and again, 3 Vols., 1736, 12mo). He died 30 January, 1735, and is buried in St. Clement Danes.

[p. 398] double Union. In a collection of Novels with running title: The Deceived Lovers (1696), we find No. V The Curtezan Deceived, ‘An Addition to The Lucky Mistake, Written by Mrs. A. Behn.’ This introduction of Mrs. Behn’s name was a mere bookseller’s trick to catch the unwary reader. The Curtezan Deceived is of no value. It has nothing to do with Aphra’s work and is as commonplace a little novel as an hundred others of its day.

[1] The spelling ‘Greenvil’ ‘Greenviel’ is incorrect.

THE UNFORTUNATE BRIDE;
OR, THE BLIND LADY A BEAUTY.

[ TO RICHARD NORTON], OF SOUTHWICK IN
HANTSHIRE, ESQUIRE.

Honour’d Sir,

Eminent Wit, Sir, no more than Eminent Beauty, can escape the Trouble and Presumption of Addresses; and that which can strike every body with Wonder, can never avoid the Praise which naturally flows from that Wonder: And Heaven is forc’d to hear the Addresses as well as praises of the Poor as Rich, of the Ignorant as Learned, and takes, nay rewards, the officious tho’ perhaps impertinent Zeal of its least qualify’d Devotees. Wherefore, Sir, tho’ your Merits meet with the Applause of the Learned and Witty, yet your Generosity will judge favourably of the untaught Zeal of an humbler Admirer, since what I do your eminent Vertues compel. The Beautiful will permit the most despicable of their Admirers to love them, tho’ they never intend to make him happy, as unworthy their Love, but they will not be angry at the fatal Effect of their own Eyes.

But what I want in my self, Sir, to merit your Regard, I hope my Authoress will in some measure supply, so far at least to lessen my Presumption in prefixing your Name to a Posthumous Piece of hers, whom all the Men of Wit, that were her Contemporaries, look’d on as the Wonder of her Sex; and in none of her Performances has she shew’d so great a Mastery as in her Novels, where Nature always prevails; and if they are not true, they are so like it, that they do the business every jot as well.

This I hope, Sir, will induce you to pardon my Presumption in dedicating this Novel to you, and declaring my self, Sir,

Your most obedient
and most humble Servant,
S. Briscoe.

[ THE UNFORTUNATE BRIDE:]
or, The Blind Lady a Beauty.

Frankwit and Wildvill, were two young Gentlemen of very considerable Fortunes, both born in Staffordshire, and, during their Minority, both educated together, by which Opportunity they contracted a very inviolable Friendship, a Friendship which grew up with them; and though it was remarkably known to every Body else, they knew it not themselves; they never made Profession of it in Words, but Actions; so true a Warmth their Fires could boast, as needed not the Effusion of their Breath to make it live. Wildvill was of the richest Family, but Frankwit of the noblest; Wildvill was admired for outward Qualifications, as Strength, and manly Proportions, Frankwit for a much softer Beauty, for his inward Endowments, Pleasing in his Conversation, of a free, and moving Air, humble in his Behaviour, and if he had any Pride, it was but just enough to shew that he did not affect Humility; his Mind bowed with a Motion as unconstrained as his Body, nor did he force this Vertue in the least, but he allowed it only. So aimable he was, that every Virgin that had Eyes, knew too she had a Heart, and knew as surely she should lose it. His Cupid could not be reputed blind, he never shot for him, but he was sure to wound. As every other Nymph admired him, so he was dear to all the Tuneful Sisters; the Muses were fired with him as much as their own radiant God Apollo; their loved Springs and Fountains were not so grateful to their Eyes as he, him they esteemed their Helicon and Parnassus too; in short, when ever he pleased, he could enjoy them all. Thus he enamour’d the whole Female Sex, but amongst all the sighing Captives of his Eyes, Belvira only boasted Charms to move him; her Parents lived near his, and even from their Childhood they felt mutual Love, as if their Eyes, at their first meeting, had struck out such Glances, as had kindled into amorous Flame. And now Belvira in her fourteenth Year, (when the fresh Spring of young Virginity began to cast more lively Bloomings in her Cheeks, and softer Longings in her Eyes) by her indulgent Father’s Care was sent to London to a Friend, her Mother being lately dead: When, as if Fortune ordered it so, Frankwit’s Father took a Journey to the other World, to let his Son the better enjoy the Pleasures and Delights of this: The young Lover now with all imaginable haste interred his Father, nor did he shed so many Tears for his Loss, as might in the least quench the Fire which he received from his Belvira’s Eyes, but (Master of seventeen Hundred Pounds a Year, which his Father left him) with all the Wings of Love flies to London, and sollicits Belvira with such Fervency, that it might be thought he meant Death’s Torch should kindle Hymen’s; and now as soon as he arrives at his Journey’s end, he goes to pay a Visit to the fair Mistress of his Soul, and assures her, That tho’ he was absent from her, yet she was still with him; and that all the Road he travell’d, her beauteous Image danced before him, and like the ravished Prophet, he saw his Deity in every Bush; in short, he paid her constant Visits, the Sun ne’er rose or set, but still he saw it in her Company, and every Minute of the Day he counted by his Sighs. So incessantly he importuned her that she could no longer hold out, and was pleased in the surrender of her Heart, since it was he was Conqueror; and therefore felt a Triumph in her yielding. Their Flames now joyned, grew more and more, glowed in their Cheeks, and lightened in their Glances: Eager they looked, as if there were Pulses beating in their Eyes; and all endearing, at last she vowed, that Frankwit living she would ne’er be any other Man’s. Thus they past on some time, while every Day rowl’d over fair; Heaven showed an Aspect all serene, and the Sun seemed to smile at what was done. He still caressed his Charmer, with an Innocence becoming his Sincerity; he lived upon her tender Breath, and basked in the bright Lustre of her Eyes, with Pride, and secret Joy.

He saw his Rivals languish for that Bliss, those Charms, those Raptures and extatick Transports, which he engrossed alone. But now some eighteen Months (some Ages in a Lover’s Kalendar) winged with Delights, and fair Belvira now grown fit for riper Joys, knows hardly how she can deny her pressing Lover, and herself, to crown their Vows, and joyn their Hands as well as Hearts. All this while the young Gallant wash’d himself clean of that shining Dirt, his Gold; he fancied little of Heaven dwelt in his yellow Angels, but let them fly away, as it were on their own golden Wings; he only valued the smiling Babies in Belvira’s Eyes. His Generosity was boundless, as his Love, for no Man ever truly loved, that was not generous. He thought his Estate, like his Passion, was a sort of a Pontick Ocean, it could never know an Ebb; But now he found it could be fathom’d, and that the Tide was turning, therefore he sollicits with more impatience the consummation of their Joys, that both might go like Martyrs from their Flames immediately to Heaven; and now at last it was agreed between them, that they should both be one, but not without some Reluctancy on the Female side; for ’tis the Humour of our Sex, to deny most eagerly those Grants to Lovers, for which most tenderly we sigh, so contradictory are we to our selves, as if the Deity had made us with a seeming Reluctancy to his own Designs; placing as much Discords in our Minds, as there is Harmony in our Faces. We are a sort of aiery Clouds, whose Lightning flash out one way, and the Thunder another. Our Words and Thoughts can ne’er agree. So this young charming Lady thought her Desires could live in their own longings, like Misers wealth-devouring Eyes; and e’er she consented to her Lover, prepared him first with speaking Looks, and then with a fore-running Sigh, applyed to the dear Charmer thus: ‘Frankwit, I am afraid to venture the Matrimonial Bondage, it may make you think your self too much confined, in being only free to one.’ ‘Ah! my dear Belvira,’ he replied, ‘That one, like Manna, has the Taste of all, why should I be displeased to be confined to Paradice, when it was the Curse of our Forefathers to be set at large, tho’ they had the whole World to roam in: You have, my love, ubiquitary Charms, and you are all in all, in every Part.’ ‘Ay, but,’ reply’d Belvira, ‘we are all like Perfumes, and too continual Smelling makes us seem to have lost our Sweets, I’ll be judged by my Cousin Celesia here, if it be not better to live still in mutual Love, without the last Enjoyment.’ (I had forgot to tell my Reader that Celesia was an Heiress, the only Child of a rich Turkey Merchant, who, when he dyed, left her Fifty thousand Pound in Money, and some Estate in Land; but, poor Creature, she was Blind to all these Riches, having been born without the use of Sight, though in all other Respects charming to a wonder.) ‘Indeed,’ says Celesia, (for she saw clearly in her Mind) ‘I admire you should ask my Judgment in such a Case, where I have never had the least Experience; but I believe it is but a sickly Soul which cannot nourish its Offspring of Desires without preying upon the Body.’ ‘Believe me,’ reply’d Frankwit, ‘I bewail your want of Sight, and I could almost wish you my own Eyes for a Moment, to view your charming Cousin, where you would see such Beauties as are too dazling to be long beheld; and if too daringly you gazed, you would feel the Misfortune of the loss of Sight, much greater than the want of it: And you would acknowledge, that in too presumptuously seeing, you would be blinder then, than now unhappily you are.’

‘Ah! I must confess,’ reply’d Belvira, ‘my poor, dear Cousin is Blind, for I fancy she bears too great an Esteem for Frankwit, and only longs for Sight to look on him.’ ‘Indeed,’ reply’d Celesia, ‘I would be glad to see Frankwit, for I fancy he’s as dazling, as he but now describ’d his Mistress, and if I fancy I see him, sure I do see him, for Sight is Fancy, is it not? or do you feel my Cousin with your Eyes?’ ‘This is indeed, a charming Blindness,’ reply’d Frankwit, ‘and the fancy of your Sight excels the certainty of ours. Strange! that there should be such Glances even in blindness? You, fair Maid, require not Eyes to conquer, if your Night has such Stars, what Sunshine would your Day of Sight have, if ever you should see?’ ‘I fear those Stars you talk of,’ said Belvira, ‘have some Influence on you, and by the Compass you sail by now, I guess you are steering to my Cousin. She is indeed charming enough to have been another Offspring of bright Venus, Blind like her Brother Cupid.’ ‘That Cupid,’ reply’d Celesia, ‘I am afraid has shot me, for methinks I would not have you marry Frankwit, but rather live as you do without the last Enjoyment, for methinks if he were marry’d, he would be more out of Sight than he already is.’ ‘Ah, Madam,’ return’d Frankwit, ‘Love is no Camelion, it cannot feed on Air alone.’ ‘No but,’ rejoyn’d Celesia, ‘you Lovers that are not Blind like Love it self, have am’rous Looks to feed on.’ ‘Ah! believe it,’ said Belvira, ‘’tis better, Frankwit, not to lose Paradice by too much Knowledge; Marriage Enjoyments does but wake you from your sweet golden Dreams: Pleasure is but a Dream, dear Frankwit, but a Dream, and to be waken’d.’ ‘Ah! Dearest, but unkind Belvira,’ answer’d Frankwit, ‘sure there’s no waking from Delight, in being lull’d on those soft Breasts of thine.’ ‘Alas! (reply’d the Bride to be) it is that very lulling wakes you; Women enjoy’d, are like Romances read, or Raree-shows once seen, meer Tricks of the slight of Hand, which, when found out, you only wonder at your selves for wondering so before at them. ’Tis Expectation endears the Blessing; Heaven would not be Heaven, could we tell what ’tis. When the Plot’s out you have done with the Play, and when the last Act’s done, you see the Curtain drawn with great indifferency.’ ‘O my Belvira’, answered Frankwit, ‘that Expectation were indeed a Monster which Enjoyment could not satisfy: I should take no pleasure,’ he rejoin’d, ‘running from Hill to Hill, like Children chasing that Sun, which I could never catch.’ ‘O thou shalt have it then, that Sun of Love,’ reply’d Belvira, fir’d by this Complaint, and gently rush’d into Arms, (rejoyn’d) so Phœbus rushes radiant and unsullied, into a gilded Cloud. ‘Well then, my dear Belvira,’ answered Frankwit, ‘be assured I shall be ever yours, as you are mine; fear not you shall never draw Bills of Love upon me so fast, as I shall wait in readiness to pay them; but now I talk of Bills, I must retire into Cambridgeshire, where I have a small Concern as yet unmortgaged, I will return thence with a Brace of thousand Pounds within a Week at furthest, with which our Nuptials, by their Celebration, shall be worthy of our Love. And then, my Life, my Soul, we shall be join’d, never to part again.’ This tender Expression mov’d Belvira to shed some few Tears, and poor Celesia thought herself most unhappy that she had not Eyes to weep with too; but if she had, such was the greatness of her Grief, that sure she would have soon grown Blind with weeping. In short, after a great many soft Vows, and Promises of an inviolable Faith, they parted with a pompous sort of pleasing Woe; their Concern was of such a mixture of Joy and Sadness, as the Weather seems, when it both rains and shines. And now the last, the very last Adieu’s was over, for the Farewels of Lovers hardly ever end, and Frankwit (the Time being Summer) reach’d Cambridge that Night, about Nine a Clock; (Strange! that he should have made such Haste to fly from what so much he lov’d!) and now, tir’d with the fatigue of his Journey, he thought fit to refresh himself by writing some few Lines to his belov’d Belvira; for a little Verse after the dull Prose Company of his Servant, was as great an Ease to him, (from whom it flow’d as naturally and unartificially, as his Love or his Breath) as a Pace or Hand-gallop, after a hard, uncouth, and rugged Trot. He therefore, finding his Pegasus was no way tir’d with his Land-travel, takes a short Journey thro’ the Air, and writes as follows:

My dearest dear Belvira,

YOU knew my Soul, you knew it yours before,

I told it all, and now can tell no more;

Your Presents never wants fresh Charms to move, But now more strange, and unknown Pow’r you prove, For now your very Absence ’tis I love.

Something there is which strikes my wandring View, And still before my Eyes I fancy you.

Charming you seem, all charming, heavenly fair, Bright as a Goddess, does my Love appear, You seem, Belvira, what indeed you are.

Like the Angelick Off-spring of the Skies, With beatifick Glories in your Eyes:

Sparkling with radiant Lustre all Divine, Angels, and Gods! oh Heavens! how bright they shine! Are you Belvira? can I think you mine!

Beyond ev’n Thought, I do thy Beauties see, Can such a Heaven of Heavens be kept for me! Oh be assur’d, I shall be ever true, I must—— For if I would, I can’t be false to you.

Oh! how I wish I might no longer stay, Tho’ I resolve I will no Time delay, One Tedious Week, and then I’ll fleet away.

Tho’ Love be blind, he shall conduct my Road, Wing’d with almighty Love, to your Abode, I’ll fly, and grow Immortal as a God.

Short is my stay, yet my impatience strong, Short tho’ it is, alas! I think it long.

I’ll come, my Life, new Blessings to pursue, Love then shall fly a Flight he never flew, I’ll stretch his balmy Wings; I’m yours,—Adieu.

Frankwit.

This Letter Belvira receiv’d with unspeakable Joy, and laid it up safely in her Bosom; laid it, where the dear Author of it lay before, and wonderfully pleas’d with his Humour of writing Verse, resolv’d not to be at all behind-hand with him, and so writ as follows:

My dear Charmer,

YOU knew before what Power your Love could boast,

But now your constant Faith confirms me most.

Absent Sincerity the best assures, Love may do much, but Faith much more allures, For now your Constancy has bound me yours.

I find, methinks, in Verse some Pleasure too, I cannot want a Muse, who write to you. Ah! soon return, return, my charming Dear, Heav’n knows how much we Mourn your Absence here: My poor Celesia now would Charm your Soul, Her Eyes, once Blind, do now Divinely rowl. An aged Matron has by Charms unknown, Given her clear Sight as perfect as thy own. And yet, beyond her Eyes, she values thee, ’Tis for thy Sake alone she’s glad to see. She begg’d me, pray remember her to you, That is a Task which now I gladly do.

Gladly, since so I only recommend A dear Relation, and a dearer Friend, Ne’re shall my Love—but here my Note must end.

Your ever true Belvira.

When this Letter was written, it was strait shown to Celesia, who look’d upon any Thing that belong’d to Frankwit, with rejoycing Glances; so eagerly she perus’d it, that her tender Eyes beginning to Water, she cry’d out, (fancying she saw the Words dance before her View) ‘Ah! Cousin, Cousin, your Letter is running away, sure it can’t go itself to Frankwit.’ A great Deal of other pleasing innocent Things she said, but still her Eyes flow’d more bright with lustrous Beams, as if they were to shine out; now all that glancing Radiancy which had been so long kept secret, and, as if, as soon as the Cloud of Blindness once was broke, nothing but Lightnings were to flash for ever after. Thus in mutual Discourse they spent their Hours, while Frankwit was now ravished with the Receipt of this charming Answer of Belvira’s, and blest his own Eyes which discovered to him the much welcome News of fair Celesia’s. Often he read the Letters o’re and o’re, but there his Fate lay hid, for ’twas that very Fondness proved his Ruin. He lodg’d at a Cousin’s House of his, and there, (it being a private Family) lodged likewise a Blackamoor Lady, then a Widower; a whimsical Knight had taken a Fancy to enjoy her: Enjoy her did I say? Enjoy the Devil in the Flesh at once! I know not how it was, but he would fain have been a Bed with her, but she not consenting on unlawful Terms, (but sure all Terms are with her unlawful) the Knight soon marry’d her, as if there were not hell enough in Matrimony, but he must wed the Devil too. The Knight a little after died, and left this Lady of his (whom I shall Moorea) an Estate of six thousand Pounds per Ann. Now this Moorea observed the joyous Frankwit with an eager Look, her Eyes seemed like Stars of the first Magnitude glaring in the Night; she greatly importuned him to discover the Occasion of his transport, but he denying it, (as ’tis the Humour of our Sex) made her the more Inquisitive; and being Jealous that it was from a Mistress, employ’d her Maid to steal it, and if she found it such, to bring it her: accordingly it succeeded, for Frankwit having drank hard with some of the Gentlemen of that Shire, found himself indisposed, and soon went to Bed, having put the Letter in his Pocket: The Maid therefore to Moorea contrived that all the other Servants should be out of the Way, that she might plausibly officiate in the Warming the Bed of the indisposed Lover, but likely, had it not been so, she had warmed it by his Intreaties in a more natural Manner; he being in Bed in an inner Room, she slips out the Letter from his Pocket, carries it to her Mistress to read, and so restores it whence she had it; in the Morning the poor Lover wakened in a violent Fever, burning with a Fire more hot than that of Love. In short, he continued Sick a considerable while, all which time the Lady Moorea constantly visited him, and he as unwillingly saw her (poor Gentleman) as he would have seen a Parson; for as the latter would have perswaded, so the former scared him to Repentance. In the mean while, during his sickness, several Letters were sent to him by his dear Belvira, and Celesia too, (then learning to write) had made a shift to give him a line or two in Postscript with her Cousin, but all was intercepted by the jealousy of the Black Moorea, black in her mind, and dark, as well as in her body. Frankwit too writ several Letters as he was able, complaining of her unkindness, those likewise were all stopt by the same Blackmoor Devil. At last, it happened that Wildvill, (who I told my Reader was Frankwit’s friend) came to London, his Father likewise dead, and now Master of a very plentiful fortune, he resolves to marry, and paying a visit to Belvira, enquires of her concerning Frankwit, she all in mourning for the loss, told him his friend was dead. ‘Ah! Wildvill, he is dead,’ said she, ‘and died not mine, a Blackmoor Lady had bewitched him from me; I received a Letter lately which informed me all; there was no name subscribed to it, but it intimated, that it was written at the request of dying Frankwit.’ ‘Oh! I am sorry at my Soul,’ said Wildvill, ‘for I loved him with the best, the dearest friendship; no doubt then,’ rejoyned he, ‘’tis Witchcaft indeed that could make him false to you; what delight could he take in a Blackmoor Lady, tho’ she had received him at once with a Soul as open as her longing arms, and with her Petticoat put off her modesty. Gods! How could he change a whole Field Argent into downright Sables.’ ‘’Twas done,’ returned Celesia, ‘with no small blot, I fancy, to the Female ’Scutcheon.’ In short, after some more discourse, but very sorrowful, Wildvill takes his leave, extreamly taken with the fair Belvira, more beauteous in her cloud of woe; he paid her afterwards frequent visits, and found her wonder for the odd inconstancy of Frankwit, greater than her sorrow, since he dy’d so unworthy of her. Wildvill attack’d her with all the force of vigorous love, and she (as she thought) fully convinc’d of Frankwit’s death, urg’d by the fury and impatience of her new ardent Lover, soon surrender’d, and the day of their Nuptials now arriv’d, their hands were joyn’d. In the mean time Frankwit (for he still liv’d) knew nothing of the Injury the base Moorea practis’d, knew not that ’twas thro’ her private order, that the fore-mention’d account of his falshood and his death was sent; but impatient to see his Dear Belvira, tho’ yet extremely weak, rid post to London, and that very day arriv’d there, immediately after the Nuptials of his Mistress and his Friend were celebrated. I was at this time in Cambridge, and having some small acquaintance with this Blackmoor Lady, and sitting in her Room that evening, after Frankwit’s departure thence, in Moorea’s absence, saw inadvertently a bundle of Papers, which she had gathered up, as I suppose, to burn, since now they grew but useless, she having no farther Hopes of him: I fancy’d I knew the Hand, and thence my Curiosity only led me to see the Name and finding Belvira subscrib’d, I began to guess there was some foul play in Hand. Belvira being my particularly intimate Acquaintance, I read one of them, and finding the Contents, convey’d them all secretly out with me, as I thought, in Point of Justice I was bound, and sent them to Belvira by that Night’s Post; so that they came to her Hands soon after the Minute of her Marriage, with an Account how, and by what Means I came to light on them. No doubt but they exceedingly surpriz’d her: But Oh! Much more she grew amaz’d immediately after, to see the Poor, and now unhappy Frankwit, who privately had enquir’d for her below, being received as a Stranger, who said he had some urgent Business with her, in a back Chamber below Stairs. What Tongue, what Pen can express the mournful Sorrow of this Scene! At first they both stood Dumb, and almost Senseless; she took him for the Ghost of Frankwit; he looked so pale, new risen from his Sickness, he (for he had heard at his Entrance in the House, that his Belvira marry’d Wildvill) stood in Amaze, and like a Ghost indeed, wanted the Power to speak, till spoken to the first. At last, he draws his Sword, designing there to fall upon it in her Presence; she then imagining it his Ghost too sure, and come to kill her, shrieks out and Swoons; he ran immediately to her, and catch’d her in his Arms, and while he strove to revive and bring her to herself, tho’ that he thought could never now be done, since she was marry’d. Wildvill missing his Bride, and hearing the loud Shriek, came running down, and entring the Room, sees his Bride lie clasp’d in Frankwit’s Arms. ‘Ha! Traytor!’ He cries out, drawing his Sword with an impatient Fury, ‘have you kept that Strumpet all this while, curst Frankwit, and now think fit to put your damn’d cast Mistress upon me: could not you forbear her neither ev’n on my Wedding Day? abominable Wretch!’ Thus saying, he made a full Pass at Frankwit, and run him thro’ the left Arm, and quite thro’ the Body of the poor Belvira; that thrust immediately made her start, tho’ Frankwit’s Endeavours all before were useless. Strange! that her Death reviv’d her! For ah! she felt, that now she only liv’d to die! Striving thro’ wild Amazement to run from such a Scene of Horror, as her Apprehensions shew’d her; down she dropt, and Frankwit seeing her fall, (all Friendship disannull’d by such a Chain of Injuries) Draws, fights with, and stabs his own loved Wildvill. Ah! Who can express the Horror and Distraction of this fatal Misunderstanding! The House was alarm’d, and in came poor Celesia, running in Confusion just as Frankwit was off’ring to kill himself, to die with a false Friend, and perjur’d Mistress, for he suppos’d them such. Poor Celesia now bemoan’d her unhappiness of sight, and wish’d she again were blind. Wildvill dy’d immediately, and Belvira only surviv’d him long enough to unfold all their most unhappy fate, desiring Frankwit with her dying breath, if ever he lov’d her, (and now she said that she deserv’d his love, since she had convinced him that she was not false) to marry her poor dear Celesia, and love her tenderly for her Belvira’s sake; leaving her, being her nearest Relation, all her fortune, and he, much dearer than it all, to be added to her own; so joyning his and Celesia’s Hands, she poured her last breath upon his Lips, and said, ‘Dear Frankwit, Frankwit, I die yours.’ With tears and wondrous sorrow he promis’d to obey her Will, and in some months after her interrment, he perform’d his promise.

[ Notes: Critical and Explanatory:]
The Unfortunate Bride.

[p. 401] To Richard Norton. This Epistle Dedicatory is only to be found in the first edition of The Unfortunate Bride; or, The Blind Lady a Beauty, ‘Printed for Samuel Briscoe, in Charles-Street, Covent-Garden, 1698’, and also dated, on title page facing the portrait of Mrs. Behn, 1700.

Southwick, Hants, is a parish and village some 1¾ miles from Portchester, 4½ from Fareham. Richard Norton was son and heir of Sir Daniel Norton, who died seised of the manor in 1636. Richard Norton married Anne, daughter of Sir William Earle, by whom he had one child, Sarah. He was, in his county at least, a figure of no little importance. Tuesday, 12 August, 1701, Luttrell records that ‘an addresse from the grand jury of Hampshire . . . was delivered by Richard Norton and Anthony Henly, esqs. to the lords justices, to be laid before his majestie.’ He aimed at being a patron of the fine arts, and under his superintendence Dryden’s The Spanish Friar was performed in the frater of Southwick Priory,[1] the buildings of which had not been entirely destroyed at the suppression. Colley Cibber addresses the Dedicatory Epistle (January, 1695) of his first play, Love’s Last Shift (4to, 1696), to Norton in a highly eulogistic strain. The plate of Southwick Church (S. James), consisting of a communion cup, a standing paten, two flagons, an alms-dish, and a rat-tail spoon, is silver-gilt, and was presented by Richard Norton in 1691. He died 10 December, 1732.

[1] The house was one of Black (Austin) Canons.

THE DUMB VIRGIN; OR,
THE FORCE OF IMAGINATION.

[ INTRODUCTION.]

Consanguinity and love which are treated in this novel so romantically and with such tragic catastrophe had already been dealt with in happier mood by Mrs. Behn in The Dutch Lover. Vide Note on the Source of that play, Vol. I, p. 218. [ Cross-Reference: The Dutch Lover, Sources.]

In classic lore the Œdipus Saga enthralled the imagination of antiquity and inspired dramas amongst the world’s masterpieces. Later forms of the tale may be found in Suidas and Cedrenus.

The Legend of St. Gregory, based on a similar theme, the hero of which, however, is innocent throughout, was widely diffused through mediæval Europe. It forms No. 81 of the Gesta Romanorum. There is an old English poem[1] on the subject, and it also received lyric treatment at the hands of the German meistersinger, Hartmann von Aue. An Italian story, Il Figliuolo di germani, the chronicle of St. Albinus, and the Servian romaunt of the Holy Foundling Simeon embody similar circumstances.

Matteo Bandello, Part II, has a famous[2] novel (35) with rubric, ‘un gentiluomo navarrese sposa una, che era sua sorella e figliuola, non lo sapendo,’ which is almost exactly the same as the thirtieth story of the Heptameron. As the good Bishop declares that it was related to him by a lady living in the district, it is probable that some current tradition furnished both him and the Queen of Navarre with these horrible incidents and that neither copied from the other.[3]

Bandello was imitated in Spanish by J. Perez de Montalvan, Sucesos y Prodigios de Amor—La Mayor confusion; in Latin by D. Otho Melander; and he also gave Desfontaines the subject of L’Inceste Innocent; Histoire Véritable (Paris, 1644). A similar tale is touched upon in Amadis de Gaule, and in a later century we find Le Criminel sans le Savoir, Roman Historique et Poëtique (Amsterdam and Paris, 1783). It is also found in Brevio’s Rime e Prose; Volgari, novella iv; and in T. Grapulo (or Grappolino), Il Convito Borghesiano (Londra, 1800). A cognate legend is Le Dit du Buef and Le Dit de la Bourjosee de Rome. (ed. Jubinal, Nouveau Recueil; and Nouveau Recueil du Sénateur de Rome . . . ed. Méon.) Again: the Leggenda di Vergogna, etc. testi del buon secolo in prosa e in verso, edited by A. D’Ancona (Bologna, 1869) repeats the same catastrophe. It is also related in Byshop’s Blossoms.

In Luther’s Colloquia Mensalia, under the article ‘Auricular Confession’, the occurrence is said to have taken place at Erfurt in Germany. Julio de Medrano, a Spanish writer of the sixteenth century, says that a similar story was related to him when he was in the Bourbonnois, where the inhabitants pointed out the house which had been the scene of these morbid passions. France, indeed, seems to have been the home of the tradition, and Le Roux de Lincy in the notes to his excellent edition of the Heptameron quotes from Millin, Antiquités Nationales (t. iii. f. xxviii. p. 6.) who, speaking of the Collegiate Church of Ecouis, says that in the midst of the nave there was a prominent white marbel tablet with this epitaph:—

Cy-gist la fille, cy-gist le père,

Cy-gist la soeur, cy-gist le frère;

Cy-gist la femme, et le mary,

Et si n’y a que deux corps icy.

The tradition ran that a son of ‘Madame d’Ecouis avait eu de sa mère sans la connaître et sans en être reconnu une fille nommée Cécile. Il épousa ensuite en Lorraine cette même Cécile qui était auprès de la Duchesse de Bar . . . Il furent enterrés dans le même tombeau en 1512 à Ecouis.’ An old sacristan used to supply curious visitors to the church with a leaflet detailing the narrative. The same story is attached to other parishes, and at Alincourt, a village between Amiens and Abbeville, the following lines are inscribed upon a grave:—

Ci git le fils, ci git la mère,

Ci git la fille avec le père,

Ci git la soeur, ci git le frère,

Ci git la femme et le mari,

Et ne sont pas que trois corps ici.

When Walpole wrote his tragedy, The Mysterious Mother (1768), he states he had no knowledge of Bandello or the Heptameron, but he gives the following account of the origin of his theme. ‘I had heard when very young, that a gentlewoman, under uncommon agonies of mind, had waited on Archbishop Tillotson and besought his counsel. A damsel that served her had, many years before, acquainted her that she was importuned by the gentlewoman’s son to grant him a private meeting. The mother ordered the maiden to make the assignation, when she said she would discover herself and reprimand him for his criminal passion; but, being hurried away by a much more criminal passion herself, she kept the assignation without discovering herself. The fruit of this horrid artifice was a daughter, whom the gentlewoman caused to be educated very privately in the country; but proving very lovely and being accidentally met by her father-brother, who never had the slightest suspicion of the truth, he had fallen in love with and actually married her. The wretched guilty mother learning what had happened, and distracted with the consequence of her crime, had now resorted to the Archbishop to know in what manner she should act. The prelate charged her never to let her son and daughter know what had passed, as they were innocent of any criminal intention. For herself, he bad her almost despair.’

The same story occurs in the writings of the famous Calvinistic divine, William Perkins (1558-1602), sometime Rector of St. Andrew’s, Cambridge. Thence it was extracted for The Spectator.

In Mat Lewis’ ghoulish romance, The Monk (1796) it will be remembered that Ambrosio, after having enjoyed Antonia, to whose bedchamber he has gained admittance by demoniacal aid, discovers that she is his sister, and heaping crime upon crime to sorcery and rape he has added incest.

There is a tragic little novel, ‘The Illegal Lovers; a True Secret History. Being an Amour Between A Person of Condition and his Sister. Written by One who did reside in the Family.’ (8vo, 1728.) After the death of his wife, Bellario falls in love with his sister Lindamira. Various sentimental letters pass between the two, and eventually Bellario in despair pistols himself. The lady lives to wed another admirer. The tale was obviously suggested by the Love Letters between a Nobleman and his Sister.

[1] There are three MSS. Vernon MS., Oxford, edited by Horstmann; MS. Cott, Cleop. D. ix, British Museum; Auchinleck MS., Advocates’ Library, Edinburgh, edited with glossary by F. Schultz, 1876.

[2] cf. Masuccio. Il Novellino, No. 23.

[3] Bandello’s novels first appeared at Lucca, 4to, 1554. Marguerite of Angoulême died 21 December, 1549. The Heptameron was composed 1544-8 and published 1558.

[ THE DUMB VIRGIN:]
or, the Force of Imagination.

Rinaldo, a Senator of the great City Venice, by a plentiful Inheritance, and industrious Acquisitions, was become Master of a very plentiful Estate; which, by the Countenance of his Family, sprung from the best Houses in Italy, had rendred him extreamly popular and honoured; he had risen to the greatest Dignities of that State, all which Offices he discharged with Wisdom and Conduct, befitting the Importance of his Charge, and Character of the Manager; but this great Person had some Accident in his Children, sufficient to damp all the Pleasure of his more smiling Fortunes; he married when young, a beautiful and virtuous Lady, who had rendred him the happy Father of a Son; but his Joys were soon disturbed by the following Occasion.

There stands an Island in the Adriatick Sea, about twenty Leagues from Venice, a Place wonderfully pleasant in the Summer, where Art and Nature seem to out-rival each other, or seem rather to combine in rendring it the most pleasant of their products; being placed under the most benign climate in the World, and situated exactly between Italy and Greece, it appears an entire Epitome of all the Pleasures in them both; the proper glories of the Island were not a little augmented by the confluence of Gentlemen and Ladies of the chiefest Rank in the City, insomuch that this was a greater mark for Beauty and Gallantry, than Venice for Trade. Among others Rinaldo’s Lady begged her Husband’s permission to view this so much celebrated place.

He was unwilling to trust his treasure to the treachery of the watry element; but repeating her request, he yielded to her desires, his love not permitting him the least shew of command, and so thro’ its extent, conspiring its own destruction. His Lady with her young Son (whom she would not trust from her sight) and a splendid attendance in a Barge well fitted, sets out for the Island, Rinaldo being detained at home himself about some important affairs relating to the publick, committed the care of his dear Wife and Child to a faithful Servant call’d Gaspar; and for their greater security against Pyrates, had obtained his Brother, who commanded a Venetian Galley, to attend them as Convoy. In the evening they set out from Venice, with a prosperous gale, but a storm arising in the night, soon separated the Barge from her Convoy, and before morning drove her beyond the designed Port, when, instead of discovering the wish’d-for Island, they could see a Turkish Pyrate bearing towards them, with all her Sail; their late apprehensions of Shipwrack, were drowned in the greater danger of Captivity and lasting Slavery, their fears drove some into resolutions as extravagant as the terrors that caused them, but the confusion of all was so tumultuous, and the designs so various, that nothing could be put in execution for the publick safety; the greatest share of the passengers being Ladies, added strangely to the consternation; beauty always adds a pomp to woe, and by its splendid show, makes sorrow look greater and more moving. Some by their piteous plaints and wailings proclaimed their griefs aloud, whilst others bespoke their sorrows more emphatically by sitting mournfully silent; the fears of some animated them to extravagant actions, whilst the terrors of others were so mortifying, that they shewed no sign of Life, but by their trembling; some mourned the rigour of their proper fate, others conscious of the sorrows their Friends and Relations should sustain through their loss, made the griefs of them their own; but the heaviest load of misfortunes lay on Rinaldo’s Lady, besides the loss of her liberty, the danger of her honour, the separation from her dear Husband, the care for her tender Infant wrought rueful distractions; she caught her Child in her Arms, and with Tears extorted thro’ Fear and Affection, she deplor’d the Misfortune of her Babe, the pretty Innocent smiling in the Embraces of its Mother, shew’d that Innocence cou’d deride the Persecution of Fortune; at length she delivered the Infant into the Hand of Gasper, begging him to use all Endeavours in its Preservation, by owning it for his, when they fell into the Hands of the Enemy.

But Gasper, who amidst the universal Consternation, had a peculiar Regard to his own Safety, and Master’s Interest, undertook a Design desperately brave. Two long Planks, which lay lengthwise in the Barge, as Seats, he had ty’d together with Ropes, and taking the Infant from the Mother, whilst the whole Vessel was in a distracted Confusion, he fast’ned it to the Planks, and shoving both over-board before him, plung’d into the Sea after, dragging the Planks that bore the Infant with one Hand, and swimming with t’other, making the next Land; he had swam about two hundred Paces from the Barge before his Exploit was discover’d, but then the Griefs of Rinaldo’s Lady were doubly augmented, seeing her Infant expos’d to the Fury of the merciless Winds and Waves, which she then judged more rigorous than the Turks; for to a weak Mind, that Danger works still the strongest, that’s most in View; but when the Pirate, who by this time had fetch’d them within Shot, began to Fire, she seem’d pleas’d that her Infant was out of that Hazard, tho’ exposed to a greater. Upon their Sign of yielding, the Turk launching out her Boat, brought them all on board her; but she had no time to examine her Booty, being saluted by a Broadside, vigorously discharg’d from a Venetian Galley, which bore down upon them, whilst they were taking aboard their Spoil; this Galley was that commanded by Rinaldo’s Brother, which cruising that Way in quest of the Barge, happily engag’d the Turk, before they had Leisure to offer any Violence to the Ladies, and plying her warmly the Space of two Hours, made her a Prize, to the inexpressible Joy of the poor Ladies, who all this time under Hatches, had sustain’d the Horrors of ten thousand Deaths by dreading one.

All the greater Dangers over, Rinaldo’s Lady began to reflect on the strange Riddle of her Son’s Fortune, who by shunning one Fate, had (in all Probability) fallen into a worse, for they were above ten Leagues from any Land, and the Sea still retain’d a Roughness, unsettled since the preceeding Storm; she therefore begg’d her Brother-in-Law to Sail with all Speed in Search of her Son and Gasper; but all in vain, for cruising that Day, and the succeeding Night along the Coasts, without making any Discovery of what they sought, he sent a Boat to be inform’d by the Peasants, of any such Landing upon their Coast; but they soon had a dismal Account, finding the Body of Gasper thrown dead on the Sand, and near to him the Planks, the unhappy Occasion of his Flight, and the Faithless Sustainers of the Infant. So thinking these mournful Objects Testimonies enough of the Infant’s Loss, they return’d with the doleful Relation to their Captain and the Lady; her Grief at the recital of the Tragic Story, had almost transported her to Madness; what Account must she now make to the mournful Father, who esteem’d this Child the chief Treasure of his Life; she fear’d, that she might forfeit the Affection of a Husband, by being the unfortunate Cause of so great a Loss; but her Fears deceiv’d her, for altho’ her Husband, receiv’d her with great Grief, ’twas nevertheless moderated by the Patience of a Christian, and the Joy for recovering his beloved Lady.

This Misfortune was soon lessen’d by the growing Hopes of another Off-spring, which made them divest their Mourning, to make Preparations for the joyful Reception of this new Guest into the World; and upon its Appearance their Sorrows were redoubled, ’twas a Daughter, its Limbs were distorted, its Back bent, and tho’ the face was the freest from Deformity, yet had it no Beauty to Recompence the Dis-symetry of the other Parts; Physicians being consulted in this Affair, derived the Cause from the Frights and dismal Apprehensions of the Mother, at her being taken by the Pyrates; about which time they found by Computation, the Conception of the Child to be; the Mother grew very Melancholy, rarely speaking, and not to be comforted by any Diversion. She conceiv’d again, but no hopes of better Fortune cou’d decrease her Grief, which growing with her Burden, eased her of both at once, for she died in Child-birth, and left the most beautiful Daughter to the World that ever adorn’d Venice, but naturally and unfortunately Dumb, which defect the learn’d attributed to the Silence and Melancholy of the Mother, as the Deformity of the other was to the Extravagance of her Frights.

Rinaldo, waving all Intentions of a second Marriage, directs his Thoughts to the Care of his Children, their Defects not lessening his Inclination, but stirring up his Endeavours in supplying the Defaults of Nature by the Industry of Art; he accordingly makes the greatest Provision for their Breeding and Education, which prov’d so effectual in a little Time, that their Progress was a greater Prodigy than themselves.

The Eldest, called Belvideera, was indefatigably addicted to Study, which she had improv’d so far, that by the sixteenth Year of her Age, she understood all the European Languages, and cou’d speak most of’em, but was particularly pleas’d with the English, which gave me the Happiness of many Hours Conversation with her; and I may ingenuously declare, ’twas the most Pleasant I ever enjoy’d, for besides a piercing Wit, and depth of Understanding peculiar to herself, she delivered her Sentiments with that easiness and grace of Speech, that it charm’d all her Hearers.

The Beauties of the second Sister, nam’d Maria, grew with her Age, every twelve Months saluting her with a New-years Gift of some peculiar Charm; her Shapes were fine set off with a graceful and easy Carriage; the Majesty and Softness of her Face, at once wrought Love and Veneration; the Language of her Eyes sufficiently paid the Loss of her Tongue, and there was something so Commanding in her Look, that it struck every Beholder as dumb as herself; she was a great Proficient in Painting, which puts me in mind of a notable Story I can’t omit; her Father had sent for the most Famous Painter in Italy to draw her Picture, she accordingly sat for it; he had drawn some of the Features of her Face; and coming to the Eye, desired her to give him as brisk and piercing a Glance as she cou’d; but the Vivacity of her Look so astonished the Painter, that thro’ concern he let his Pencil drop and spoiled the Picture; he made a second Essay, but with no better Success, for rising in great Disorder, he swore it impossible to draw that which he cou’d not look upon; the Lady vexed at the Weakness of the Painter, took up his Pencils and the Picture, and sitting down to her Glass, finished it herself; she had improv’d her silent Conversation with her Sister so far, that she was understood by her, as if she had spoke, and I remember this Lady was the first I saw use the significative Way of Discourse by the Fingers; I dare not say ’twas she invented it (tho’ it probably might have been an Invention of these ingenious Sisters) but I am positive none before her ever brought it to that Perfection.

In the seventeenth of Belvideera’s, and sixteenth Year of Maria’s Age, Francisco, Brother to Rinaldo, was made Admiral of the Venetian Fleet, and upon his first Entrance upon his Command, had obtained a signal Victory over the Turks; he returning to Venice with Triumph, applause and spoil, presented to the great Duke a young English Gentleman, who only as a Volunteer in the Action, had signalized himself very bravely in the Engagement, but particularly by first boarding the Turkish Admiral Galley, and killing her Commander hand to hand; the Fame of this Gentleman soon spread over all Venice, and the two Sisters sent presently for me, to give an Account of the Exploits of my Countryman, as their Unkle had recounted it to them; I was pleas’d to find so great an Example of English Bravery, so far from Home, and long’d extreamly to converse with him, vainly flattering myself, that he might have been of my Acquaintance. That very Night there was a grand Ball and Masquerade at the great Duke’s Palace, for the most signal Joy of the late Success, thither Belvideera invited me to Accompany her and Maria, adding withal as a Motive, that we might there most probably meet, and Discourse with this young Hero; and equipping me with a Suit of Masquerade, they carried me in their Coach to the Ball, where we had pass’d half an Hour, when I saw enter a handsom Gentleman in a rich English Dress; I show’d him to Belvideera, who moving towards him, with a gallant Air, slaps him on the Shoulder with her Fan, he turning about, and viewing her Person, the Defaults of which were not altogether hidden by her Disguise; ‘Sir, (said he) if you are a Man, know that I am one, and will not bear Impertinence; but, if you are a Lady, Madam, as I hope in Heavens you are not, I must inform you, that I am under a Vow, not to converse with any Female to Night;’ ‘Know then, Sir, (answered Belvideera very smartly) that I am a Female, and you have broke your Vow already; but methinks, Sir, the Ladies are very little oblig’d to your Vow, which wou’d rob them of the Conversation of so fine a Gentleman.’

‘Madam, (said the Gentleman) the Sweetness of your Voice bespeaks you a Lady, and I hope the breaking my Vow will be so far from Damning me, that I shall thereby merit Heaven, if I may be blest in your Divine Conversation.’ Belvideera made such ingenious and smart Repartees to the Gentleman, who was himself a great Courtier, that he was entirely captivated with her Wit, insomuch, that he cou’d not refrain making Protestations of his Passion; he talked about half an Hour in such pure Italian, that I began to mistrust my Englishman, wherefore taking some Occasion to jest upon his Habit, I found ’twas only a Masquerade to cloak a down-right Venetian; in the mean Time, we perceiv’d a Gentleman Gallantly attir’d with no Disguise but a Turkish Turbant on, the richliest beset with Jewels I ever saw; he addressed Maria with all the Mien and Air of the finest Courtier; he had talked to her a good while before we heard him, but then Belvideera, knowing her poor Sister uncapable of any Defence, ‘Sir, (said she to the Venetian,) yonder is a Lady of my Acquaintance, who lies under a Vow of Silence as you were, I must therefore beg your Pardon, and fly to her Relief’: ‘She can never be conquer’d, who has such a Champion,’ (reply’d the Gentleman) upon which Belvideera turning from him, interpos’d between the Gentleman and her Sister, saying, ‘This Lady, Sir, is under an Obligation of Silence, as a Penance imposed by her Father-Confessor.’ ‘Madam, (reply’d the Gentleman) whoever impos’d Silence on these fair Lips, is guilty of a greater Offence than any, such a fair Creature cou’d commit.’ ‘Why, Sir, (said Belvideera) have you seen the Lady’s Beauty’: ‘Yes, Madam, (answer’d he) for urging her to talk, which I found she declin’d, I promis’d to disengage her from any farther Impertinence, upon a Sight of her Face; she agreed by paying the Price of her Liberty, which was ransom enough for any Thing under Heavens, but her fair Company’; he spoke in an Accent that easily shew’d him a Stranger; which Belvideera laying hold of, as an Occasion of Railery, ‘Sir, (said she,) your Tongue pronounces you a great Stranger in this Part of the World, I hope you are not what that Turbant represents; perhaps, Sir, you think your self in the Seraglio’; ‘Madam, (reply’d he,) this Turbant might have been in the Turkish Seraglio, but never in so fair a one as this; and this Turbant (taking it off) is now to be laid at the Foot of some Christian Lady, for whose safety, and by whose protecting Influence, I had the Happiness to win it from the Captain of the Turkish Admiral Galley.’ We were all surpriz’d, knowing him then the young English Gentleman, we were so curious of seeing; Belvideera presently talk’d English to him, and made him some very pretty Complements upon his Victory, which so charm’d the young Soldier, that her Tongue claim’d an equal Share in his Heart with Maria’s Eyes; ‘Madam, (said he to her) if you have the Beauty of that Lady, or if she has your Wit, I am the most happy, or the most unfortunate Man alive.’ ‘Sir,’ said the Venetian coming up, ‘pray give me leave to share in your Misfortunes.’ ‘Sir, (said Belvideera very smartly) you must share in his good Fortunes, and learn to conquer Men, before you have the Honour of being subdu’d by Ladies, we scorn mean Prizes, Sir.’ ‘Madam, (said the Venetian in some Choler) perhaps I can subdue a Rival.’ ‘Pray, Sir, (said the Stranger) don’t be angry with the Lady, she’s not your Rival I hope, Sir.’ Said the Venetian, ‘I can’t be angry at the Lady, because I love her; but my Anger must be levell’d at him, who after this Declaration dare own a Passion for her.’ ‘Madam, (said the English Gentleman turning from the Venetian) Honour now must extort a Confession from me, which the Awfulness of my Passion durst never have own’d: And I must declare,’ added he in a louder Voice, ‘to all the World, that I love you, lest this Gentleman shou’d think his Threats forc’d me to disown it.’ ‘O! then (said Belvideera) you’re his Rival in Honour, not in Love.’ ‘In honourable Love I am, Madam,’ answer’d the Stranger. ‘I’ll try,’ (said the Venetian, going off in Choler,) he Whisper’d a little to a Gentleman, that stood at some Distance, and immediately went out; this was Gonzago, a Gentleman of good Reputation in Venice, his Principles were Honour and Gallantry, but the Former often sway’d by Passions, rais’d by the Latter. All this while, Maria and I were admiring the Stranger, whose Person was indeed wonderfully Amiable; his Motions were exact, yet free and unconstrain’d; the Tone of his Voice carried a sweet Air of Modesty in it, yet were all his Expressions manly; and to summ up all, he was as fine an English Gentleman, as I ever saw Step in the Mall.

Poor Maria never before envied her Sister the Advantage of Speech, or never deplor’d the Loss of her own with more Regret, she found something so Sweet in the Mien, Person, and Discourse of this Stranger, that her Eyes felt a dazling Pleasure in beholding him, and like flattering Mirrours represented every Action and Feature, with some heightning Advantage to her Imagination: Belvideera also had some secret Impulses of Spirit, which drew her insensibly into a great Esteem of the Gentleman; she ask’d him, by what good Genius, propitious to Venice, he was induced to Live so remote from his Country; he said, that he cou’d not imploy his Sword better than against the common Foe of Christianity; and besides, there was a peculiar Reason, which prompted him to serve there, which Time cou’d only make known. I made bold to ask him some peculiar Questions, about Affairs at Court, to most of which he gave Answers, that shew’d his Education liberal, and himself no Stranger to Quality; he call’d himself [Dangerfield], which was a Name that so pleas’d me, that being since satisfied it was a Counterfeit, I us’d it in a Comedy of mine: We had talk’d ’till the greater Part of the Company being dispers’d, Dangerfield begg’d Leave to attend us to our Coach, and waiting us to the Door, the Gentleman, whom Gonzago whisper’d, advanc’d and offer’d his Service to hand Maria; she declin’d it, and upon his urging, she turn’d to the other Side of Dangerfield, who, by this Action of the Ladies finding himself intitled to her Protection, ‘Sir, (said he) Favours from great Beauties, as from great Monarchs, must flow Voluntarily, not by Constraint, and whosoever wou’d extort from either, are liable to the great Severity of Punishment.’ ‘Oh! Sir, (reply’d the Venetian very arrogantly,) I understand not your Monarchy, we live here under a free State; besides, Sir, where there is no Punishment to be dreaded, the Law will prove of little Force; and so, Sir, by your Leave,’ offering to push him aside, and lay hold on the Lady. Dangerfield returned the Justle so vigorously, that the Venetian fell down the Descent of some Stairs at the Door, and broke his Sword: Dangerfield leap’d down after him, to prosecute his Chastizement, but seeing his Sword broken, only whisper’d him, that if he wou’d meet him next Morning at Six, at the Back-part of St. Mark’s Church, he wou’d satisfie him for the Loss of his Sword; upon which, the Venetian immediately went off, cursing his ill Fate, that prevented his quarrelling with Dangerfield, to whom he had born a grudging Envy ever since his Success in the late Engagement, and of whom, and his Lodgings, he had given Gonzago an Account, when he whisper’d him at the Ball. Dangerfield left us full of his Praises, and went home to his Lodgings, where he found a Note directed to him to this Effect:

SIR,

You declared Publickly at the Ball, you were my Rival in Love and Honour: If you dare prove it by Maintaining it, I shall be to morrow Morning at Six, at the Back-part of St. Mark’s Church, where I shall be ready to fall a Sacrifice to both.

Gonzago.

Dangerfield, on the Perusal of this Challenge, began to reflect on the Strangeness of that Evening’s Adventure, which had engag’d him in a Passion for two Mistresses, and involv’d him in two Duels; and whether the Extravagance of his Passion, or the Oddness of his Fighting-Appointments, were most remarkable, he found hard to Determine; his Love was divided between the Beauty of one Lady, and Wit of another, either of which he loved passionately, yet nothing cou’d satisfy him, but the Possibility of enjoying both. He had appointed the Gentleman at the Ball to meet him at the same Time and Place, which Gonzago’s Challenge to him imported; this Disturbance employed his Thought till Morning, when rising and dressing himself very richly, he walked to the appointed Place. Erizo, who was the Gentleman whose Sword he had broke, was in the Place before him; and Gonzago entered at the same Time with him. Erizo, was surprized to see Gonzago, as much as he was to find Erizo there. ‘I don’t remember, Friend (said Gonzago) that I desired your Company here this Morning.’ ‘As much as I expected yours,’ answered Erizo. ‘Come, Gentlemen, (said Dangerfield, interrupting them) I must fight you both, it seems: which shall I dispatch first?’ ‘Sir, (said Erizo) you challeng’d me, and therefore I claim your Promise.’ ‘Sir, (reply’d Gonzago) he must require the same of me first, as I challenged him.’ Said Erizo, ‘the Affront I received was unpardonable, and therefore I must fight him first, lest if he fall by your Hands, I be depriv’d of my Satisfaction.’ ‘Nay (reply’d Gonzago) my Love and Honour being laid at Stake, first claims his Blood; and therefore, Sir, (continued he to Dangerfield) defend yourself.’ ‘Hold (said Erizo interposing,) if you thrust home, you injure me, your Friend.’ ‘You have forfeited that title, (said Gonzago all in Choler,) and therefore if you stand not aside, I’ll push at you.’ ‘Thrust home then, (said Erizo) and take what follows.’ They immediately assaulted each other vigorously. ‘Hold, Gentlemen, (said Dangerfield striking down their Swords) by righting your selves you injure me, robbing me of that Satisfaction, which you both owe me, and therefore, Gentlemen, you shall fight me, before any private Quarrel among your selves defraud me of my Revenge, and so one or both of you,’ thrusting first at Erizo. ‘I’m your Man,’ (said Gonzago) parrying the Thrust made at Erizo. The Clashing of so many Swords alarm’d some Gentlemen at their Mattins in the Church, among whom was Rinaldo, who since the Death of his Wife, had constantly attended Morning-Service at the Church, wherein she was buried. He with Two or Three more, upon the Noise ran out, and parting the three Combatants, desired to know the Occasion of their Promiscuous Quarrel. Gonzago and Erizo knowing Rinaldo, gave him an Account of the Matter, as also who the Stranger was. Rinaldo was overjoy’d to find the brave Britain, whom he had received so great a Character of, from his Brother the Admiral, and accosting him very Courteously, ‘Sir, (said he) I am sorry our Countrymen shou’d be so Ungrateful as to Injure any Person, who has been so Serviceable to the State; and pray, Gentlemen, (added he, addressing the other two) be intreated to suspend your Animosities, and come Dine with me at my House, where I hope to prevail with you to end your Resentments.’ Gonzago and Erizo hearing him Compliment the Stranger at their Expence, told him in a Rage, they wou’d chuse some other Place than his House, to end their Resentments in, and walk’d off. Dangerfield, on Rinaldo’s farther Request, accompanied him to his House.

Maria had newly risen, and with her Night-gown only thrown loose about her, had look’d out of the Window, just as her Father and Dangerfield were approaching the Gate, at the same Instant she cast her Eyes upon Dangerfield, and he accidentally look’d up to the Window where she stood, their Surprize was mutual, but that of Dangerfield the greater; he saw such an amazing Sight of Beauty, as made him doubt the Reality of the Object, or distrust the Perfection of his Sight; he saw his dear Lady, who had so captivated him the preceeding Day, he saw her in all the heightning Circumstances of her Charms, he saw her in all her native Beauties, free from the Incumbrance of Dress, her Hair as black as Ebony, hung flowing in careless Curls over her Shoulders, it hung link’d in amorous Twinings, as if in Love with its own Beauties; her Eyes not yet freed from the Dullness of the late Sleep, cast a languishing Pleasure in their Aspect, which heaviness of Sight added the greatest Beauties to those Suns, because under the Shade of such a Cloud, their Lustre cou’d only be view’d; the lambent Drowsiness that play’d upon her Face, seem’d like a thin Veil not to hide, but to heighten the Beauty which it cover’d; her Night-gown hanging loose, discover’d her charming Bosom, which cou’d bear no Name, but Transport, Wonder and Extasy, all which struck his Soul, as soon as the Object hit his Eye; her Breasts with an easy Heaving, show’d the Smoothness of her Soul and of her Skin; their Motions were so languishingly soft, that they cou’d not be said to rise and fall, but rather to swell up towards Love, the Heat of which seem’d to melt them down again; some scatter’d jetty Hairs, which hung confus’dly over her Breasts, made her Bosom show like Venus caught in Vulcan’s Net, but ’twas the Spectator, not she, was captivated. This Dangerfield saw, and all this at once, and with Eyes that were adapted by a preparatory Potion; what must then his Condition be? He was stricken with such Amazement, that he was forced to Support himself, by leaning on Rinaldo’s Arm, who started at his sudden Indisposition. ‘I’m afraid, Sir, (said he) you have received some Wound in the Duel.’ ‘Oh! Sir, (said he) I am mortally wounded’; but recollecting himself after a little Pause, ‘now I am better.’ Rinaldo wou’d have sent for a Surgeon to have it searched. ‘Your pardon, Sir, (said Dangerfield) my Indisposition proceeds from an inward Malady, not by a Sword, but like those made by Achilles’s Spear, nothing can cure, but what gave the Wound.’ Rinaldo guessing at the Distemper, but not the Cause of it, out of good Manners declined any further enquiry, but conducting him in, entertained him with all the Courtesy imaginable; but in half a Hour, a Messenger came from the Senate, requiring his immediate Attendance; he lying under an indispensable Necessity of making his personal Appearance, begg’d Dangerfield’s Pardon, intreating him to stay, and command his House till his return, and conducting him to a fine Library, said he might there find Entertainment, if he were addicted to Study; adding withal, as a farther Engagement of his Patience, that he should meet the Admiral at the Senate, whom he wou’d bring home as an Addition to their Company at Dinner. Dangerfield needed none of these Motives to stay, being detained by a secret Inclination to the Place; walking therefore into the Library, Rinaldo went to the Senate. Dangerfield when alone, fell into deep Ruminating on his strange Condition, he knew himself in the House, with one of his dear Charmers, but durst not hope to see her, which added to his Torment; like Tantalus remov’d the farther from Happiness, by being nearer to it, contemplated so far on the Beauties of that dear Creature, that he concluded, if her Wit were like that of his t’other Mistress, he wou’d endeavour to confine his Passion wholly to that Object.

In the mean Time, Maria was no less confounded, she knew herself in Love with a Stranger, whose Residence was uncertain, she knew her own Modesty in concealing it; and alas! she knew her Dumbness uncapable of ever revealing it, at least, it must never expect any Return; she had gather’d from her Sister’s Discourse, that she was her Rival; a Rival, who had the Precedency in Age, as the Advantage in Wit, and Intreague, which want of Speech render’d her uncapable of; these Reflections, as they drew her farther from the dear Object, brought her nearer Despair; her Sister was gone that Morning with her Unkle, the Admiral, about two Miles from Venice, to drink some Mineral Waters, and Maria finding nothing to divert her, goes down to her Father’s Library, to ease her Melancholy by reading. She was in the same loose Habit in which she appeared at the Window, her Distraction of Thought not permitting her any Care in dressing herself; she enter’d whilst Dangerfield’s Thoughts were bent by a full Contemplation of her Idea, insomuch that his Surprize represented her as a Phantom only, created by the Strength of his Fancy; her depth of Thought had cast down her Eyes in a fix’d Posture so low, that she discover’d not Dangerfield, till she stood close where he sat, but then so sudden an Appearance of what she so lov’d, struck so violently on her Spirits, that she fell in a Swoon, and fell directly into Dangerfield’s Arms; this soon wakened him from his Dream of Happiness, to a Reality of Bliss, he found his Phantom turn’d into the most charming Piece of Flesh and Blood that ever was, he found her, whom just now he despair’d of seeing; he found her with all her Beauties flowing loose in his Arms, the Greatness of the Pleasure rais’d by the two heightning Circumstances of Unexpectancy and Surprize, was too large for the Capacity of his Soul, he found himself beyond Expression happy, but could not digest the Surfeit; he had no sooner Leisure to consider on his Joy, but he must reflect on the Danger of her that caus’d it, which forced him to suspend his Happiness to administer some Relief to her expiring Senses: He had a Bottle of excellent Spirits in his Pocket, which holding to her Nose, soon recover’d her; she finding herself in the Arms of a Man, and in so loose a Dress, blush’d now more red, than she look’d lately pale; and disengaging herself in a Confusion, wou’d have flung from him; but he gently detaining her by a precarious Hold, threw himself on his Knees, and with the greatest Fervency of Passion cry’d out: ‘For Heavens sake, dearest Creature, be not offended at the accidental Blessing which Fortune, not Design, hath cast upon me; (She wou’d have rais’d him up,) No Madam, (continu’d he) never will I remove from this Posture, ’till you have pronounc’d my Pardon; I love you, Madam, to that Degree, that if you leave me in a distrust of your Anger, I cannot survive it; I beg, intreat, conjure you to speak, your Silence torments me worse than your Reproaches cou’d; am I so much disdain’d, that you will not afford me one Word?’ The lamentable Plight of the wretched Lady every one may guess, but no Body can comprehend; she saw the dearest of Mankind prostrate at her Feet, and imploring what she wou’d as readily grant as he desire, yet herself under a Necessity of denying his Prayers, and her own easy Inclinations. The Motions of her Soul, wanting the freedom of Utterance, were like to tear her Heart asunder by so narrow a Confinement, like the force of Fire pent up, working more impetuously; ’till at last he redoubling his Importunity, her Thoughts wanting Conveyance by the Lips, burst out at her Eyes in a Flood of Tears; then moving towards a Writing-Desk, he following her still on his Knees, amidst her Sighs and Groans she took Pen and Paper, writ two Lines, which she gave him folded up, then flinging from him, ran up to her Chamber: He strangely surpriz’d at this odd manner of Proceeding, opening the Paper, read the following Words:

You can’t my Pardon, nor my Anger move.

For know, alas! I’m dumb, alas! I love.

He was wonderfully Amaz’d reading these Words. ‘Dumb, (cried he out) naturally Dumb? O ye niggard Powers, why was such a wond’rous Piece of Art left imperfect?’ He had many other wild Reasonings upon the lamentable Subject, but falling from these to more calm Reflections, he examined her Note again, and finding by the last Words that she loved him, he might presently imagine, that if he found not some Means of declaring the Continuance of his Love, the innocent Lady might conjecture herself slighted, upon the Discovery of her Affection and Infirmity: Prompted, by which Thought, and animated by the Emotions of his Passion, he ventured to knock at her Door; she having by this Time dressed herself, ventured to let him in: Dangerfield ran towards her, and catching her with an eager Embrace, gave her a thousand Kisses; ‘Madam, (said he) you find that pardoning Offences only prepares more, by emboldning the Offender; but, I hope, Madam,’ shewing her the Note, ‘this is a general Pardon for all Offences of this sort, by which I am so encouraged to Transgress, that I shall never cease Crimes of this Nature’; Kissing her again. His Happiness was interrupted by Belvideera’s coming Home, who running up Stairs, called, ‘Sister, Sister, I have News to tell you’: Her Voice alarms Maria, who fearing the Jealousy of Belvideera, shou’d she find Dangerfield in her Bed-Chamber, made Signs that he shou’d run into the Closet, which she had just lock’d as Belvideera came in: ‘Oh, Sister! (said Belvideera) in a lucky Hour went I abroad this Morning.’ In a more lucky Hour stay’d I at home this Morning, thought Maria. ‘I have, (continued she,) been Instrumental in parting two Gentlemen fighting this Morning, and what is more, my Father had parted them before, when engag’d with the fine English Gentleman we saw at the Ball yesterday; but the greatest News of all is, that this fine English Gentleman is now in the House, and must Dine here to Day; but you must not appear, Sister, because ’twere a Shame to let Strangers know that you are Dumb.’ Maria perceived her Jealousy, pointed to her Limbs, intimating thereby, that it was as great a Shame for her to be seen by Strangers; but she made farther Signs, that since it was her Pleasure, she wou’d keep her Chamber all that Day, and not appear abroad. Belvideera was extreamly glad of her Resolution, hoping that she shou’d enjoy Dangerfield’s Conversation without any Interruption. The Consternation of the Spark in the Closet all this while was not little, he heard the Voice of the Charmer, that had so captivated him, he found that she was Sister to that Lady, whom he just now was making so many Protestations to, but he cou’d not imagine how she was Instrumental in parting the two Gentlemen, that shou’d have fought him; the Occasion was this:

Gonzago and Erizo, parting from Rinaldo and Dangerfield, had walk’d towards the Rialto, and both exasperated that they had missed their intended Revenge against Dangerfield, turned their Fury upon each other, first raising their Anger by incensed Expostulations, then drawing their Swords, engaged in a desperate Combat, when a Voice very loud calling, (Erizo, hold) stopt their Fury to see whence it proceeded; when a Coach driving at full Flight stopt close by them, and Francisco the Venetian Admiral leaped out with his Sword drawn, saying, ‘Gentlemen, pray let me be an Instrument of Pacification: As for your part, Erizo, this Proceeding suits not well with the Business I am to move in Favour of you in the Senate to Day; the Post you sue for claims your Blood to be spilt against the common Foe, not in private Resentment, to the Destruction of a Citizen; and therefore I intreat you as my Friend, or I command you as your Officer, to put up.’ Erizo, unwilling to disoblige his Admiral, upon whose Favour his Advancement depended, told Gonzago, that he must find another time to talk with him. ‘No, no, Gentlemen, (said the Admiral) you shall not part ’till I have reconciled you, and therefore let me know your Cause of Quarrel.’ Erizo therefore related to him the whole Affair, and mentioning that Dangerfield was gone Home to Dine with Rinaldo; ‘With Rinaldo my Father?’ said Belvideera from the Coach, overjoy’d with Hopes of seeing Dangerfield at Home. ‘Yes, (reply’d Gonzago surpriz’d) if Rinaldo the Senator be your Father, Madam.’ ‘Yes, he is,’ reply’d Belvideera. Gonzago then knew her to be the Lady he was enamour’d of, and for whom he wou’d have fought Dangerfield; and now cursed his ill Fate, that he had deny’d Rinaldo’s Invitation, which lost him the Conversation of his Mistress, which his Rival wou’d be sure of. ‘Come, come, Gentlemen, (said the Admiral) you shall accompany me to see this Stranger at Rinaldo’s House, I bear a great Esteem for him, and so it behoves every loyal Venetian, for whose Service he hath been so signal.’ Erizo, unwilling to deny the Admiral, and Gonzago glad of an Opportunity of his Mistress’s Company, which he just now thought lost, consented to the Proposal, and mounting all into the Coach, the three Gentlemen were set down at the Senate, and the Lady drove Home as above-mentioned.

Rinaldo in the mean Time was not idle in the Senate, there being a Motion made for Election of a Captain to the Rialto Galleon, made void by the Death of its former Commander in the late Fight, and which was the Post designed by the Admiral for Erizo. Rinaldo catching an Opportunity of obliging Dangerfield, for whom he entertain’d a great Love and Respect, proposed him as a Candidate for the Command, urging his late brave Performance against the Turks, and how much it concerned the Interest of the State to encourage Foreigners. He being the Admiral’s Brother, and being so fervent in the Affair, had by an unanimous Consent his Commission sign’d just as his Brother came into the Senate, who fearing how Things were carried, comforted Erizo by future Preferment; but Erizo, however he stifled his Resentment, was struck with Envy, that a Stranger, and his Enemy shou’d be preferred to him, and resolved Revenge on the first Opportunity. They all went home with Rinaldo, and arrived whilst Belvideera was talking above Stairs with her Sister. Rinaldo, impatient to communicate his Success to Dangerfield, ran into the Study, where he left him; but missing him there, went into the Garden, and searching all about, returned to the Company, telling them he believ’d Dangerfield had fallen asleep in some private Arbor in the Garden, where he cou’d not find him, or else impatient of his long stay, had departed; but he was sure, if he had gone, he wou’d soon return: However they went to Dinner, and Belvideera came down, making an Apology for her Sister’s Absence, thro’ an Indisposition that had seized her. Gonzago had his wished for Opportunity of entertaining his Mistress, whilst she always expecting some News of Dangerfield, sat very uneasie in his Company; whilst Dangerfield in the Closet, was as impatient to see her. The short Discourse she had with her Sister, gave him assurance that his Love wou’d not be unacceptable. Maria durst not open the Closet, afraid that her Sister shou’d come up every Minute, besides, ’twas impossible to convey him out of the Chamber undiscovered, untill ’twas dark, which made him Wonder what occasioned his long Confinement; and being tired with sitting, got up to the Window, and softly opening the Casement, looked out to take the Air; his Footman walking accidentally in the Court, and casting up his Eye that way, spy’d him, which confirm’d his Patience in attending for him at the Gate; at length it grew Dark, and Maria knowing that her Sister was engag’d in a Match at Cards with her Father, Gonzago and Erizo, the Admiral being gone, she came softly to the Closet, and innocently took Dangerfield by the Hand, to lead him out, he clapt the dear soft Hand to his Mouth, and kissing it eagerly, it fired his Blood, and the unhappy Opportunity adding to the Temptation, raised him to the highest Pitch of Passion; he found himself with the most beautiful Creature in the World, one who loved him, he knew they were alone in the Dark, in a Bed-chamber, he knew the Lady young and melting, he knew besides she cou’d not tell, and he was conscious of his Power in moving; all these wicked Thoughts concurring, establish’d him in the Opinion, that this was the critical Minute of his Happiness, resolving therefore not to lose it, he fell down on his Knees, devouring her tender Hand, sighing out his Passion, begging her to Crown it with her Love, making Ten thousand Vows and Protestations of his Secrecy and Constancy, urging all the Arguments that the Subtilty of the Devil or Man could suggest. She held out against all his Assaults above two Hours, and often endeavoured to Struggle from him, but durst make no great Disturbance, thro’ fear of Alarming the Company below, at last he redoubling his Passion with Sighs, Tears, and all the rest of Love’s Artillery, he at last gain’d the Fort, and the poor conquered Lady, all panting, soft, and trembling every Joynt, melted by his Embraces, he there fatally enjoy’d the greatest Extasy of Bliss, heightned by the Circumstances of Stealth, and Difficulty in obtaining. The ruin’d Lady now too late deplored the Loss of her Honour; but he endeavour’d to Comfort her by making Vows of Secrecy, and promising to salve her Reputation by a speedy Marriage, which he certainly intended, had not the unhappy Crisis of his Fate been so near. The Company by this Time had gone off, and Belvideera had retir’d to her Chamber, melancholy that she had missed her Hopes of seeing Dangerfield. Gonzago and Erizo going out of the Gate, saw Dangerfield’s Footman, whom they knew, since they saw him with his Master in the Morning. Gonzago asked him why he waited there? ‘For my Master, Sir,’ reply’d the Footman. ‘Your Master is not here sure,’ said Gonzago. ‘Yes, but he is, Sir,’ said the Servant, ‘for I attended him hither this Morning with Rinaldo, and saw him in the Afternoon look out of a Window above Stairs.’ ‘Ha!’ said Gonzago, calling Erizo aside, ‘by Heavens, he lies here to Night then, and perhaps with my Mistress; I perceiv’d she was not pressing for our Stay, but rather urging our Departure. Erizo, Erizo, this Block must be remov’d, he has stepped between you and a Command to Day, and perhaps may lye between me and my Mistress to Night.’ ‘By Hell (answered Erizo) thou hast raised a Fury in me, that will not be lulled asleep, but by a Potion of his Blood; let’s dispatch this Blockhead first’: And running at the Footman, with one Thrust killed him. Dangerfield by this time had been let out, and hearing the Noise, ran to the Place; they presently assaulted him; he defended himself very bravely the space of some Minutes, having wounded Gonzago in the Breast; when Rinaldo hearing the Noise, came out; but too late for Dangerfield’s Relief, and too soon for his own Fate; for Gonzago, exasperated by his Wound, ran treacherously behind Dangerfield, and thrust him quite thro’ the Body. He finding the mortal Wound, and wild with Rage, thrust desperately forward at Erizo, when at the instant Rinaldo striking in between to part them, received Dangerfield’s Sword in his Body, which pierced him quite thro’. He no sooner fell, than Dangerfield perceived his fatal Error, and the other Two fled. Dangerfield curs’d his Fate, and begg’d with all the Prayers and Earnestness of a dying Man, that Rinaldo wou’d forgive him. ‘Oh!’ said Rinaldo, ‘you have ill rewarded me for my Care in your Concerns in the Senate to Day.’ The Servants coming out, took up Rinaldo, and Dangerfield leaning upon his Sword, they led him in. Belvideera first heard the Noise, and running down first met the horrid Spectacle, her dear Father breathing out his last, and her Lover, whom she had all that Day flattered her self with Hopes of seeing, she now beheld in Streams of his Blood; but what must poor Maria’s Case be? besides the Grief for her Father’s Fate, she must view that dear Man, lately Happy in her Embraces, now folded in the Arms of Death, she finds herself bereft of a Parent, her Love, her Honour, and the Defender of it, all at once; and the greatest Torment is, that she must bear all this Anguish, and cannot Ease her Soul by expressing it. Belvideera sat wiping the Blood from her Father’s Wound, whilst mournful Maria sat by Dangerfield, administring all the Help she cou’d to his fainting Spirits; whilst he viewed her with greater Excess of Grief, than he had heretofore with Pleasure; being sensible what was the Force of her silent Grief, and the Wrong he had done her, which now he cou’d never Redress: He had accidentally dropt his Wig in the Engagement, and inclining his Head over the Couch where he lay, Rinaldo casting his Eye upon him, perceiv’d the Mark of a bloody Dagger on his Neck, under his left Ear: ‘Sir, (said Rinaldo, raising himself up) I conjure you answer me directly, were you born with the Mark of that Dagger, or have you received it since by Accident.’ ‘I was certainly born with it,’ answer’d he. ‘Just such a Mark had my Son Cosmo, who was lost in the Adriatick.’ ‘How! (reply’d Dangerfield, starting up with a wild Confusion) Lost! say’st thou in the Adriatick? Your Son lost in the Adriatick?’ ‘Yes, yes,’ said Rinaldo, ‘too surely lost in the Adriatick.’ ‘O ye impartial Powers (said Dangerfield), why did you not reveal this before? Or why not always conceal it? How happy had been the Discovery some few Hours ago, and how Tragical is it now? For know,’ continued he, addressing himself to Rinaldo, ‘know that my suppos’d Father, who was a Turky Merchant, upon his Death-bed call’d me to him, and told me ’twas time to undeceive me, I was not his Son, he found me in the Adriatick Sea, ty’d to two Planks in his Voyage from Smyrna to London; having no Children, he educated me as his own, and finding me worth his Care, left me all his Inheritance with this dying Command, that I shou’d seek my Parents at Venice.’ Belvideera hearkning all this while to the lamentable Story, then conjectured whence proceeded the natural Affection the whole Family bore him, and embracing him, cry’d out, ‘Oh my unhappy Brother.’ Maria all the while had strong and wild Convulsions of Sorrow within her, ’till the working Force of her Anguish racking at once all the Passages of her Breast, by a violent Impulse, broke the Ligament that doubled in her Tongue, and she burst out with this Exclamation; ‘Oh! Incest, Incest.’ Dangerfield eccho’d that Outcry with this, ‘O! Horror, Horror, I have enjoy’d my Sister, and murder’d my Father.’ Maria running distracted about the Chamber, at last spy’d Dangerfield’s Sword, by which he had supported himself into the House, and catching it up, reeking with the Blood of her Father, plung’d it into her Heart, and throwing herself into Dangerfield’s Arms, calls out, ‘O my Brother, O my Love,’ and expir’d. All the Neighbourhood was soon alarm’d by the Out-cries of the Family. I lodged within three Doors of Rinaldo’s House, and running presently thither, saw a more bloody Tragedy in Reality, than what the most moving Scene ever presented; the Father and Daughter were both dead, the unfortunate Son was gasping out his last, and the surviving Sister most miserable, because she must survive such Misfortunes, cry’d to me; ‘O! behold the Fate of your wretched Countryman.’ I cou’d make no Answer, being struck dumb by the Horror of such woeful Objects; but Dangerfield hearing her name his Country, turning towards me, with a languishing and weak Tone, ‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I was your Countryman, and wou’d to Heavens I were so still; if you hear my Story mention’d, on your Return to England, pray give these strange Turns of my Fate not the Name of Crimes, but favour them with the Epithet of Misfortunes; my Name is not Dangerfield, but Cla—’ His Voice there fail’d him, and he presently dy’d; Death seeming more favourable than himself, concealing the fatal Author of so many Misfortunes, for I cou’d never since learn out his Name; but have done him the justice, I hope, to make him be pity’d for his Misfortunes, not hated for his Crimes. Francisco being sent for, had Gonzago and Erizo apprehended, condemn’d, and executed. Belvideera consign’d all her Father’s Estate over to her Uncle, reserving only a Competency to maintain her a Recluse all the rest of her Life.

[ Notes: Critical and Explanatory:]
The Dumb Virgin.

[p. 429] Dangerfield. This name is not to be found in any one of Mrs. Behn’s plays, but as it does occur in Sedley’s Bellamira; or, The Mistress (1687), one can only conclude that Aphra gave it to Sir Charles and altered her own character’s nomenclature. Mrs. Behn, it may be remembered, was more than once extraordinarily careless with regard to the names of the Dramatis Personæ in her comedies. A striking example occurs in Sir Patient Fancy, where the ‘precise clerk’ is called both Abel and Bartholomew. In The Feign’d Curtezans Silvio and Sabina are persistently confused, and again, in The Town Fop (Vol. III, p. 15 and p. 20), the name Dresswell is retained for Friendlove. Sedley’s Bellamira is derived from Terence’s Eunuchus, and Dangerfield is Thraso; the Pyrgopolinices, Miles Gloriosus, of Plautus.

[ Cross-Reference]

[Beginning of Introduction]: Consanguinity and love which are treated in this novel so romantically and with such tragic catastrophe had already been dealt with in happier mood by Mrs. Behn in The Dutch Lover. Vide Note on the Source of that play, Vol. I, p. 218.

Vol. I, p. 218, beginning of “Source” section for The Dutch Lover:

Mrs. Behn founded the plot of The Dutch Lover upon the stories of Eufemie and Theodore, Don Jame and Frederic, in a pseudo-Spanish novel entitled ‘The History of Don Fenise, a new Romance written in Spanish by Francisco de Las Coveras, And now Englished by a Person of Honour, London, Printed for Humphrey Moseley,’ 8vo, 1651.