How could you so far mistake my character as to suppose I was the seducer of Seymour's mistress: I think one of your letters asserted so much. If to persuade a deceived girl to quit her profligate companion (I will not say lover, I should disgrace the name) and return to console the latter days of an aged grandmother be seduction, I am guilty. This I did to Seymour, and his invectives or the rumours he may spread are as unimportant and as little troublesome to my repose as the insects that are buzzing around me.
Montgomery, no more of your phrases, nor his accusations. Be assured I am neither your soul-less marble, nor Seymour's libertine.
At a boyish age from boyish vanity I aimed to be called a man of pleasure. It was easy to imitate the air and manners of such a man, and not less by such imitation alone to arrive at the contemptible fame among persons equally ready to encourage the practice and accuse the practitioner.
I renounce the loathsome labours of the flatterers, the despicable renown of the libertine. Miss Ashburn is my monitress, she began her lessons at Barlowe Hall, and now continues the instruction at Bath.
Do not imagine it was done in devout lectures or pious declamations. No, it was the stedfast modesty of her eye, her intelligent condemning mien, which said, here shall thy proud boast be stayed.
She was the finest woman of our party; and all the rest prepared to meet me with the glance of approbations and the smile of encouragement; yet she having been forewarned of my renown preferred the hand or arm or speech of a silly old colonel of sixty.—Now she knows me better. No, she does not, I evade, I fly her penetration.
Montgomery, the worthiest feeling I know of you is, that you lament your having made your truth and innocence a sacrifice.
I am not in love with Miss Ashburn. I would give an ear, an eye, any thing I have on earth, except the full confidence of my heart, to call her my sister, my friend. I admire, seek, venerate her; but, Montgomery, I am not in love with Miss Ashburn.