Yes, answered I, as those would think who observe not her arch looks: but she gave me pain for her several times; and, I believe, her brother was not without his apprehensions.
He had his eyes upon you, Harriet, replied Lady G——, more earnestly than he had upon me, or any body else.
That's true, said Lady L——. I looked upon both him and you, my dear, with pity. My tears were ready to start more than once, to reflect how happy you two might be in each other, and how greatly you would love each other, were it not——
Not one word more on this subject, dear Lady L——! I cannot bear it. I thought my-self, that he often cast an eye of tenderness upon me. I cannot bear it. I am afraid of myself; of my justice—
His tender looks did not escape me, said Lady G——. Nor yet did my dear
Harriet's. But we will not touch this string: it is too tender a one.
I, for my part, was forced, in order to divert myself, to turn my eyes on
Lord G——. He got nothing by that. The most officious—
Nay, Lady G——, interrupted I, you shall not change the discourse at the expense of the man you have vowed to honour. I will be pained myself, by the continuation of the former subject, rather than that shall be.
Charming Harriet! said Lady L——. I hope your generosity will be rewarded. Yet tell me, my dear, can you wish Lady Clementina may be his? I have no doubt but you wish her recovery; but can you wish her to be his?
I have debated the matter, my dear Lady L——, with myself. I am sorry it has admitted of debate: so excellent a creature! Such an honour to her sex! So nobly sincere! So pious!—But I will confess the truth: I have called upon justice to support me in my determination: I have supposed myself in her situation, her unhappy malady excepted: I have supposed her in mine: and ought I then to have hesitated to which to give the preference?—Yet—
What yet, most frank, and most generous of women? said Lady L——, clasping her arms about me: what yet—
Why, yet-Ah, ladies—Why, yet, I have many a pang, many a twitch, as I may call it!—Why is your brother so tender-hearted, so modest, so faultless!—Why did he not insult me with his pity? Why does he on every occasion shew a tenderness for me, that is more affecting than pity? And why does he give me a consequence that exalts, while it depresses me?