In the meantime, said John De Lancaster, Edward and I must be measuring back our solitary way by sea and land, deprived of that agreeable society, which we enjoyed on our passage hither. Events, which we could not foresee, and which produce sensations and reflections of a very opposite nature, have contributed to dismiss me from the duty of a longer stay, and a very little time will now release from any further trouble these generous friends, whose benevolence has given us shelter; and as I despair of ever expressing to Mr. Devereux the full sense I entertain of the kindness and consolation I have received under the protection of this charitable roof, I must rely upon the friend I leave behind me to take every occasion for bearing witness to my gratitude, till we may all have the happiness of meeting once more in our native land; a happiness, which I hope is in reserve for every one of us. I have secured my passage in the pacquet, now on her return to England. My first duty will be to deposit the mournful charge, that providence has been pleased to lay upon me, in the burial-place of my family. There are two benevolent old men, anxiously expecting me, both far advanced in years, between whom and me there is now a broken link in the chain, that leaves, alas! to them but a precarious and short hold on life. Your gallant father, my dear Henry, is, you know, and ever has been, as my father also; and for my aunt Cecilia, what I feel towards her, is only short of absolute idolatry.
Here as our hero seemed about to pause, Edward, who had watched him with a pleased attention, said—John, you have gratified us much with this account of your own feelings for a family of love, whom when you speak of thus, by honouring them, you at the same time reflect most honour on yourself. But is there not another in your thoughts—aye, in your heart, my friend, of whom you have not spoken? Come, let us—let me at least—hear me of the lovely, the beloved Amelia.
Ah, why name her? De Lancaster replied. Why tell the Major soldiers are courageous? What news to him? He knows it, and he feels it? Why tell Miss Devereux, women may be charming, and men be charmed? She knows it, and we feel it. If love be named in any lady’s hearing, it should be love particular, not general—How am I sure, if I should speak of love in any way that I can speak, the topick would be pleasing to Miss Devereux, who has such powers to inspire it, but may not want to be told any thing of those, who feel it?
I understand you, sir, Maria replied: You are very civil, and a little sly: But be assured, of all the topicks you could single out most grateful to my ears, and perhaps most correspondent with my feelings, would be a fair account without reserve of your love (which I am sure is honourable love) for the lady of your choice, of whose perfections I can’t doubt; and as for beauty I’ll take George’s word for that; he speaks in rapture of the fair Amelia.
You must not quite believe him, said our hero: At least it is not for her beauty I should be inclined to speak in raptures of Amelia. Her form and face are pleasing I presume; to me at least they are: but there is something spiritual about her; something I can’t define; an emanation from the mind within, that takes and keeps possession of my heart. I seriously declare I never yet was in her company, when I had leisure to bestow my attention upon her beauty, simply so considered. She was but as a child when I first saw her; Nature had not supplied her with attractions, that could induce me to mistake the impression, I then received, for any other than a love as pure as her own thoughts, a zeal to serve her, a wish that I might live to make her happy, and shield her, like a blossom, from the blast. I found her in the humblest situation, that dependance on my friends for education and support could place her. She was an orphan without means to furnish food for another day. There was a soft petition in her eyes for pity and protection, which if I had not felt in every vein that visited my heart, I had been a monster. Her father, a brave soldier, like my friend here in my eye, whose honour and whose sword were all his portion, married the generous girl, who risked her life to nurse and save him in a dreadful fever, when all his fellow soldiers round were dying, and every breath of air, that she respired, was charged and saturated with infection.
Oh what a godlike act, Maria cried! she merited his love. Could he do less?
He could not, and he did not, John replied. She was the daughter of a brother officer, the major of his regiment, then serving in the West Indies. She lived to be the mother of Amelia; she was too good for this bad world we live in, and Heaven recalled her; after she was lost, death had but little trouble to destroy a wretched man, whom sorrow had struck down, and both Amelia’s parents now repose in the same grave: by happy chance she found her way to England: there, by the bounty of my grandfather Morgan and my deceased mother she was placed under the care of an excellent lady, who educated and brought her up. When my poor mother died, she left her what she had in her disposal, a slender portion, but enjoined me on her death bed to consider it as my especial duty to protect her, and make her happiness, her honour and her interests in all respects my own: from that moment such they have been, and ever will be—This is the history of my Amelia. It is my happy fortune to have gained an interest in her pure and virtuous heart, and, if we live to meet, let a few months pass by without fresh cause of sorrow, she will be my wife.
Happy, happy man! exclaimed Maria, the envied privilege of whose sex it is to put aside the mean concern of money, and say to the dear object of your heart—I love you; share my fortune: I am your’s!
As she said this, not daring to abide the interpretation that her words might bear, she rose and with apparent agitation left the room.