The accident, however, disconcerted me not a little, and made me quite unfit for company. They saw the chagrin painted on my features, and soon took leave of me.
I retired to my dressing-room, and sent for Win, to inspect the almost ruinated fabrick; but such is the construction now-a-days, that a head might burn for an hour without damaging the genuine part of it. A lucky circumstance! I sustained but little damage—in short, nothing which Monsieur Corross could not remedy in a few hours.
My company staying late, and this event besides, retarded my retiring to rest till near three in the morning. I had not left my dressing-room when Sir William entered.
"Good God! not gone to bed yet, Julia? I hope you did not sit up for me. You know that is a piece of ceremony I would chuse to dispense with; as it always carries a tacit reproach under an appearance of tender solicitude." I fancied I saw in his countenance a consciousness that he deserved reproach, and a determination to begin first to find fault. I was vexed, and answered, "You might have waited for the reproach at least, before you pre-judged my conduct. Nor can you have any apprehensions that I should make such, having never taken that liberty. Neither do you do me justice in supposing me capable of the meanness you insinuate, on finding me up at this late hour. That circumstance is owing to an accident, by which I might have been a great sufferer; and which, though you so unkindly accuse me of being improperly prying and curious, I will, if you permit me, relate to you, in order to justify myself." He certainly expected I should ask some questions which would be disagreeable to him; and therefore, finding me totally silent on that head, his features became more relaxed; he enquired, with some tenderness, what alarming accident I hinted at. I informed him of every circumstance.—My account put him into good humour; and we laughed over the droll scene very heartily. Observing, however, I was quite en dishabille, "My dear girl," cried he, throwing his arm round me, "I doubt you will catch cold, notwithstanding you so lately represented a burning-mountain. Come," continued he, "will you go to bed?" While he spoke, he pressed me to his bosom; and expressed in his voice and manner more warmth of affection than he had discovered since I forsook the mountains. He kissed me several times with rapture; and his eyes dwelt on me with an ardor I have long been unused to behold. The adventure at the opera returned to my imagination. These caresses, thought I, have been bestowed on one, whose prostituted charms are more admired than mine. I sighed—"Why do you sigh, Julia?" asked my husband. "I know not," I answered. "I ought not to sigh in the very moment I am receiving proofs of your affection. But I have not lately received such proofs, and therefore perhaps I sighed."
"You are a foolish girl, Julia, yet a good one too"—cried he, kissing me again: "Foolish, to fancy I do not love you; and a good girl, not to ask impertinent questions. That is, your tongue is silent, but you have wicked eyes, Julia, that seek to look into my inmost thoughts."—"Then I will shut them," said I, affecting to laugh—but added, in a more serious tone—"I will see no further than you would wish me; to please you, I will be blind, insensible and blind."
"But, as you are not deaf, I will tell you what you well know—that I was at the opera—and with a lady too.—Do not, however, be jealous, my dear: the woman I was with was perfectly indifferent to me. I met her by accident—but I had a mind to see what effect such a piece of flirtation would have on you. I am not displeased with your behaviour; nor would I have you so with mine."
"I will in all my best obey you," said I.—"Then go to bed," said he—"To bed, my love, and I will follow thee."
You will not scruple to pronounce this a reasonable long letter, my dear Louisa, for a modern fine lady.—Ah! shield me from that character! Would to heaven Sir William was no more of the modern fine gentleman in his heart! I could be happy with him.—Yes, Louisa—was I indeed the object of his affections, not merely so of his passions, which, I fear, I am, I could indeed be happy with him. My person still invites his caresses—but for the softer sentiments of the soul—that ineffable tenderness which depends not on the tincture of the skin—of that, alas! he has no idea. A voluptuary in love, he professes not that delicacy which refines all its joys. His is all passion; sentiment is left out of the catalogue. Adieu!
JULIA STANLEY.