I pity my patron, proceeded he. I have often told you he is not happy.
What has indiscretion to expect, when discretion has so much to suffer?
His only consolation is, that he has nothing to reproach himself with.
Inevitable evils he bears as a man should. He makes no ostentation of
his piety: but, madam, Sir Charles Grandison is a CHRISTIAN.
You need not, sir, say more to me to exalt him: and, let me add, that I have no small pleasure in knowing that Clementina is a lady of strict piety, though a Roman Catholic.
And let me assure you, madam, that Sir Charles's regard for Miss Byron (his more than regard for her, why should I not say? since every body sees it) is founded upon her piety, and upon the amiable qualities of her mind. Beauty, madam, is an accidental and transient good. No man better knows how to distinguish between admiration and love, than my patron. His virtue is virtue upon full proof, and against sensibilities, that it is heroic to overcome. Lady Olivia knows this: and here I must acknowledge myself a debtor to you for three articles out of your ten. I hope soon to discharge the obligation.
Your own time, doctor: but I must say, that whenever you give me Lady
Olivia's story, I shall be pained, if I find that a Clementina is
considered by a beauty of an unhappier turn, as her rival in the love of
Sir Charles Grandison.
Lady Olivia, madam, admires him for his virtue; but she cannot, as he has made it his study to do, divide admiration from love. What offers has she not refused?—But she declares, that she had rather be the friend of Sir Charles Grandison, than the wife of the greatest prince on earth.
This struck me: Have not I said something like it? But surely with innocence of heart. But here the doctor suggests, that Olivia has put his virtue to the proof: Yet I hope not.
The FRIEND, Dr. Bartlett!—I hope that no woman who is not quite given up to dishonour, will pollute the sacred word, by affixing ideas to it, that cannot be connected with it. A friend is one of the highest characters that one human creature can shine in to another. There may be love, that though it has no view but to honour, yet even in wedlock, ripens not into friendship. How poor are all such attachments! How much beneath the exalted notion I have of that noblest, that most delicate union of souls! You wonder at me, Dr. Bartlett. Let me repeat to you, sir, (I have it by heart,) Sir Charles Grandison's tender of friendship to the poor Harriet Byron, which has given me such exalted ideas of this disinterested passion; but you must not take notice that I have. I repeated those words, beginning, 'My heart demands alliance with hers'—and ending with these—'So long as it shall be consistent with her other attachments.'*
* See page 110 of this Volume.
The doctor was silent for a few moments. At last, What a delicacy is there in the mind of this excellent man! Yet how consistent with the exactest truth! The friendship he offers you, madam, is indeed friendship. What you have repeated can want no explanation: yet it is expressive of his uncertain situation. It is—
He stopt of a sudden.