that beloved country, where a deluge of pleasures had overflowed my heart; the pure and wholesome air of the Alps; the gentle breeze of the country, more sweet than the perfumes of the East; that rich and fertile spot, that unrivalled landskip, the most beautiful that ever struck the eye of man; that delightful abode, to which I found nothing comparable in the vast tour of the globe; the aspect of a free and happy people; the mildness of the season, the serenity of the climate; a thousand pleasing recollections, which recalled to my mind the pleasures I had enjoyed: all these circumstances together threw me into a kind of transport which I cannot describe, and seemed to collect the enjoyment of my whole life into one happy moment. Having crossed the lake, I felt a new impression, of which I had no idea. It was a certain emotion of fear, which checked my heart, and disturbed me in spite of all my endeavours. This dread, of which I could not discover the cause, increased as I drew nearer to the town; it abated my eagerness to get thither, and rose to such a degree, that my expedition gave me as much uneasiness as my delay had occasioned me before. When I came to Vevey, I felt a sensation which was very far from being agreeable. I was seized with a violent palpitation, which stopped my breath, and I spoke with a trembling and broken accent. I could scarce make myself understood when I enquired for Mr. Wolmar; for I durst not mention his wife. They told me he lived at Clarens.
This information eased my breast from a pressure equal to five hundred weight, and considering the two leagues I had to travel farther as a kind of respite, I was rejoiced at a circumstance which at any other time would have made me uneasy; but I learnt with concern that Mrs.
Orbe was at Lausanne. I went into an inn to recruit my strength, but I could not swallow a morsel: when I attempted to drink I was almost suffocated, and could not empty a glass but at several sips. When I saw the horses put to, my apprehensions were doubled. I believe I should have given any thing in the world to have had one of the wheels broken by the way. I no longer saw Eloisa; my disturbed imagination presented nothing but confused objects before me; my soul was in a general tumult. I had experienced grief and despair, and should have preferred them to that horrible state. In a few words, I can assure you, that I never in my life underwent such cruel agitation as I suffered in this little way, and I am persuaded that I could not have supported it a whole day.
When I arrived, I ordered the chaise to stop at the gate, and finding that I was not in a condition to walk, I sent the postillion to acquaint Mr. Wolmar that a stranger wanted to speak with him. He was taking a walk with his wife. They were acquainted with the message, and came round another way, while I kept my eyes fixed on the avenue, and waited, in a kind of trance, in expectation of seeing somebody come from thence.
Eloisa had no sooner perceived me than she recollected me. In an instant, she saw me, she shrieked, she ran, she leaped into my arms.
At the sound of her voice I started, I revived, I saw her, I felt her.
O my Lord! O my friend!...I cannot speak...Her look, her shriek, her manner inspired me with confidence, courage, and strength, in an instant. In her arms I felt warmth, and breathed new life. A sacred transport kept us for some time closely embraced in deep silence; and it was not till after we recovered from this agreeable delirium, that our voices broke forth in confused murmurs, and our eyes intermingled tears. Mr. Wolmar was present; I knew he was, I saw him: but what was I capable of seeing? No, though the whole universe had been united against me; though a thousand torments had surrounded me, I would not have detached my heart from the least of those caresses, those tender offerings of a pure and sacred friendship, which we will bear with us to heaven!
When the violent impetuosity of our first meeting began to abate, Mrs.
Wolmar took me by the hand, and turning towards her husband, she said to him, with a certain air of candor and innocence which instantly affected me, Tho’ he is my old acquaintance, I do not present him to you, but I receive him from you, and he will hereafter enjoy my friendship no longer than he is honoured with yours----If new friends, said Mr. Wolmar, embracing me, express less natural ardor than those of long standing, yet they will grow old in their turn, and will not yield to any in affection. I received his embraces; but my heart had quite exhausted itself, and I was entirely passive.
After this short scene was over, I observed, by a side-glance, that they had put up my chaise, and taken off my trunk. Eloisa held by my arm, and I went with them towards the house, almost overwhelmed with pleasure, to find they were determined I should remain their guest.
It was then that, upon a more calm contemplation of that lovely face, which I imagined might have grown homely, I saw with an agreeable, yet sad surprize, that she was really more beautiful and sparkling than ever. Her charming features are now more regular; she is grown rather fatter, which is an addition to the resplendent fairness of her complexion. The small-pox has left some slight marks on her cheeks scarce perceptible. Instead of that mortifying bashfulness which formerly used to make her cast her eyes downwards, you may perceive in her chaste looks, the security of virtue allied with gentleness and sensibility; her countenance, tho’ not less modest, is less timid; an air of greater freedom, and more liberal grace, has succeeded that constrained carriage which was compounded of shame and tenderness; and if a sense of her failing rendered her then more bewitching, a consciousness of her purity now renders her more celestial.
We had scarce entered the parlour, when she disappeared, and returned in a minute. She did not come alone. Who do you think she brought with her? Her children! Those two lovely little ones, more beauteous than the day; in whose infant faces you might trace all the charms and features of their mother. How was I agitated at this sight? It is neither to be described nor conceived. A thousand different emotions seized me at once. A thousand cruel and delightful reflections divided my heart. What a lovely sight! What bitter regrets! I found myself distracted with grief, and transported with joy. I saw, if I may be allowed the expression, the dear object of my affections multiplied before me. Alas! I perceived at the same time too convincing a proof that I had no longer any interest in her, and my losses seemed to be multiplied with her increase.
She led them towards me. Behold, said she, with an affecting tone that pierced my soul, behold the children of your friend: they will hereafter be your friends. Henceforward I hope you will be theirs. And immediately the two little creatures ran eagerly to me, took me by the hand, and so overwhelmed me with their innocent caresses, that every emotion of my soul centered in tenderness. I took them both in my arms, and pressing them against my throbbing breast, Dear and lovely little souls, said I, with a sigh, you have an arduous task to perform. May you resemble the authors of your being; may you imitate their virtues; and by your own hereafter, administer comfort to their unfortunate friends. Mrs. Wolmar, in rapture threw herself round my neck a second time, and seemed disposed to repay me, by _her_ embraces, those caresses which _I_ had bestowed on her two sons. But how different was this from our first embrace! I perceived the difference with astonishment. It was the mother of a family whom I now embraced; I saw her surrounded by her husband and children: and the scene struck me with awe. I discovered an air of dignity in her countenance, which had not affected me till now: I found myself obliged to pay her a different kind of respect; her familiarity was almost uneasy to me; lovely as she appeared to me, I could have kissed the hem of her garment, with a better grace than I saluted her cheek.
In a word, from that moment, I perceived that either she or I were no longer the same, and I began in earnest to have a good opinion of myself.
Mr. Wolmar at length took me by the hand, and conducted me to the apartment which had been prepared for me. This, said he, as he entered, is your apartment: it is not destined to the use of a stranger; it shall never belong to another, and hereafter, if you do not occupy it, it shall remain empty. You may judge whether such a compliment was not agreeable to me; but as I had not yet deserved it, I could not hear it without confusion. Mr. Wolmar, however, spared me the trouble of an answer. He invited me to take a turn in the garden.
His behaviour there was such as made me less reserved, and assuming the air of a man who was well acquainted with my former indiscretions, but who entirely confided in my integrity, he conversed with me as a father would speak to his child; and by conciliating my esteem, made it impossible for me ever to deceive him. No, my Lord, he is not mistaken in me; I shall never forget that it is incumbent on me to justify his and your good opinion. But why should my heart reject his favours? Why should the man whom I am bound to love be the husband of Eloisa?
That day seemed defined to put me to every kind of proof which I could possibly undergo. After we had joined Mrs. Wolmar, her husband was called away to give some necessary orders, and I was left alone with her.
I then found myself involved in fresh perplexity, more painful and more unexpected than any which I had yet experienced. What should I say to her? How could I address her? Should I presume to remind her of our former connections, and of those times which were so recent in my memory? Should I suffer her to conclude that I had forgot them, or that I no longer regarded them? Think what a punishment it must be to treat the object nearest your heart as a stranger! What infamy, on the other hand, to abuse hospitality so far as to entertain her with discourse to which she could not now listen with decency? Under these various perplexities I could not keep my countenance; my colour went and came; I durst not speak, nor lift up my eyes, nor make the least motion; and I believe that I should have remained in this uneasy situation till her husband’s return, if she had not relieved me. For her part, this _tete a tete_ did not seem to embarrass her in the least. She preserved the same manner and deportment as before, and continued to talk to me with the same freedom; the only, as I imagined, endeavoured to affect more ease and gaiety, tempered with a look, not timid or tender, but soft and affectionate, as if she meant to encourage me to recover my spirits, and lay aside a reserve which she could not but perceive.
She talked to me of my long voyages; she enquired into particulars; into those especially which related to the dangers I had escaped, and the hardships I had endured: for she was sensible, she said, that she was bound in friendship to make me some reparation. Ah, Eloisa! said I, in a plaintive accent, I have enjoyed your company but for a moment; would you send me back to the Indies already? No, she answered, with a smile, but I would go thither in my turn.
I told her that I had given you a detail of my voyage, of which I had brought her a copy for her perusal. She then enquired after you with great eagerness. I gave her an account of you, which I could not do without recounting the troubles I had undergone, and the uneasiness I had occasioned you. She was affected; she began to enter into her own justification in a more serious tone, and to convince me that it was her duty to act as she had done. Mr. Wolmar joined us in the middle of her discourse, and what confounded me was, that she proceeded in the same manner as if he had not been there. He could not forbear smiling, on discovering my astonishment. After she concluded, You see, said he, an instance of the sincerity which reigns in this house. If you mean to be virtuous, learn to copy it: it is the only request I have to make, and the only lesson I would teach you. The first step towards vice, is to make a mystery of actions innocent in themselves, and whoever is fond of disguise, will sooner or later have reason to conceal himself. One moral precept may supply the place of all the rest, which is this: neither to say or do any thing, which you would not have all the world see and hear. For my part, I have always esteemed that Roman, above all other men, who wished that his house was built in such manner, that the world might see all his transactions.
I have two proposals, he continued, to make to you. chuse freely that which you like best; but accept either one or the other. Then taking his wife’s hand and mine, and closing them together, he said, Our friendship commences from this moment; this forms the dear connection, and may it be indissoluble. Embrace her as your sister and your friend; treat her as such constantly; the more familiar you are with her, the better I shall esteem you: but behave, when _tete a tete_, as if I was present; or in my presence, as if I was absent. This is all I desire. If you prefer the latter, you may chuse it without any inconvenience; for as I reserve to myself the right of intimating to you any thing which displeases me, so long as I am silent in that respect, you may be certain that I am not offended.
I should have been greatly embarrassed by this discourse two hours before, but Mr. Wolmar began to gain such an ascendancy over me, that his authority already grew somewhat familiar to me. We all three entered once more into indifferent conversation, and every time I spoke to Eloisa, I did not fail to address her by the stile of _Madam_. Tell me sincerely, said her husband at last, interrupting me, in your _tete a tete_ party just now, did you call her _Madam?_ No, answered I, somewhat disconcerted, but politeness...Such politeness, he replied, is nothing but the mask of vice; where virtue maintains its empire, it is unnecessary; and I discard it. Call my wife _Eloisa_ in my presence, or _Madam_ when you are alone; it is indifferent to me. I began to know what kind of man I had to deal with, and I resolved always to keep my mind in such a state as to bear his examination.
My body drooping with fatigue, stood in need of refreshment, and my spirits required rest; I found both one and the other at table. After so many years absence and vexation, after such tedious voyages, I said to myself, in a kind of rapture, I am in company with Eloisa, I see her, I talk with her; I sit at table with her, she views me without inquietude, and entertains me without apprehensions. Nothing interrupts our mutual satisfaction. Gentle and precious innocence, I never before relished thy charms, and to-day, for the first time, my existence ceases to be painful.
At night, when I retired to rest, I passed by their chamber; I saw them go in together; I proceeded to my own in a melancholy mood, and this moment was the least agreeable to me of any I that day experienced.
Such, my Lord, were the occurrences of this first interview, so passionately wished for, and so dreadfully apprehended. I have endeavoured to collect myself since I have been alone; I have compelled myself to self-examination; but as I am not yet recovered from the agitation of the preceding day, it is impossible for me to judge of the true state of my mind. All that I know for certain, is, that if the nature of my affection for her is not changed, at least the mode of it is altered, for I am always anxious to have a third person between us, and I now dread being alone with her, as much as I longed for it formerly.
I intend to go to Lausanne in two or three days. I have seen Eloisa but half, not having seen her cousin; that dear and amiable friend, to whom I am so much indebted, and who will always share my friendship, my services, my gratitude, and all the affections of my soul. On my return I will take the first opportunity to give you a farther account. I have need of your advice, and I shall keep a strict eye over my conduct. I know my duty, and will discharge it. However agreeable it may be to fix my residence in this house, I am determined, I have sworn, that when I grow too fond of my abode, I will quit it immediately.
Letter CXXVI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
If you had been kind enough to have staid with us as long as we desired, you would have had the pleasure of embracing your friend before your departure. He came hither the day before yesterday, and wanted to visit you to day; but the fatigue of his journey confines him to his room, and this morning he was let blood. Besides, I was fully determined, in order to punish you, not to let him go so soon; and unless you will come hither, I promise you that it will be a long time before you shall see him. You know it would be very improper to let him see the _inseparables_ asunder.
In truth, Clara, I cannot tell what idle apprehensions bewitched my mind with respect to his coming hither, and I am ashamed to have opposed it with such obstinacy. As much as I dreaded the sight of him, I should now be sorry not to have seen him, for his presence has banished those fears which yet disturbed me, and which, by fixing my attention constantly on him, might at length have given me just cause of uneasiness. I am so far from being apprehensive of the affection I feel for him, that I believe I should mistrust myself more was he less dear to me; but I love him as tenderly as ever, though my love is of a different nature. It is by comparing my present sensations with those which his presence formerly occasioned, that I derive my security, and the difference of such opposite sentiments is perceived in proportion to their vivacity.
With regard to him, though I knew him at the first glance, he nevertheless appeared to be greatly altered; and what I should formerly have thought impossible, he seems, in many respects, to be changed for the better. On the first day, he discovered many symptoms of perplexity, and it was with great difficulty that I concealed mine from him. But it was not long before he recovered that free deportment and openness of manner which becomes his character. I had always seen him timid and bashful; the fear of offending me, and perhaps the secret shame of acting a part unbecoming a man of honour, gave him an air of meanness and servility before me, which you have more than once very justly ridiculed. Instead of the submission of a slave, at present he has the respectful behaviour of a friend, who knows how to honour the object of his esteem. He now communicates his sentiments with freedom and honesty; he is not afraid lest his severe maxims of virtue should clash with his interest; he is not apprehensive of injuring himself or affecting me, by praising what is commendable in itself, and one may perceive in all that he says the confidence of an honest man, who can depend upon himself, and who derives that approbation from his own conscience, which he formerly sought for only in my looks. I find also that experience has cured him of that dogmatical and peremptory air which men are apt to contract in their closets; that he is less forward to judge of mankind, since he has observed them more; that he is less ready to establish general propositions, since he has seen so many exceptions; and that in general, the love of truth has banished the spirit of system: so that he is become less brilliant, but more rational; and one receives much more information from him, now that he does not affect to be so wise.
His figure likewise is altered, but nevertheless not for the worse; his countenance is more open; his deportment more stately; he has contracted a kind of martial air in his travels, which becomes him the better, as the lively and spirited gesture he used to express when he was in earnest, is now turned into a more grave and sober demeanour.
He is a seaman, whose appearance is cold and phlegmatic, but whose discourse is fiery and impetuous. Though he is turned of thirty, he has the look of a young man, and joins all the spirit of youth to the dignity of manhood. His complexion is entirely altered; he is as black as a Negro, and very much marked with the small-pox. My dear, I must own the truth; I am uneasy whenever I view those marks, and I catch myself looking at them very often in spite of me.
I think I can discover that if I am curious in examining him, he is not less attentive in viewing me. After so long an absence, it is natural to contemplate each other with a kind of curiosity; but if this curiosity may be thought to retain any thing of our former eagerness, yet what difference is there in the manner as well as the motive of it! If our looks do not meet so often, we nevertheless view each other with more freedom. We seem to examine each other alternately by a kind of tacit agreement. Each perceives, as it were, when it is the other’s turn, and looks a different way to give the other an opportunity. Though free from the emotions I formerly felt, yet how is it possible to behold with indifference one who inspired the tenderest passion, and who, to this hour, is the object of the purest affection? Who knows whether self-love does not endeavour to justify past errors? Who knows whether, though no longer blinded by passion, we do not both flatter ourselves by secretly approving our former choice? Be it as it may, I repeat it without a blush, that I feel a most tender affection for him, which will endure to the end of my life. I am so far from reproaching myself for harbouring these sentiments, that I think they deserve applause; I should blush not to perceive them, and consider it as a defect in my character, and the symptom of a bad disposition. With respect to him, I dare believe, that next to virtue, he loves me beyond any thing in the world. I perceive that he thinks himself honoured by my esteem; I in my turn will regard his in the same light, and will merit its continuance. Ah!
if you saw with what tenderness he caresses my children; if you knew what pleasure he takes in talking of you, you would find, Clara, that I am still dear to him.
What increases my confidence in the opinion we both entertain of him, is that Mr. Wolmar joins with us, and since he has seen him, believes, from his own observation, all that we have reported to his advantage.
He has talked of him much these two evenings past, congratulating himself on account of the measures he has taken, and rallying me for my opposition. No, said he yesterday, we will not suffer so worthy a man to mistrust himself; we will teach him to have more confidence in his own virtue, and perhaps we may one day or other reap the fruits of our present endeavours with more advantage than you imagine. For the present, I must tell you that I am pleased with his character, and that I esteem him particularly for one circumstance which he little suspects, that is, the reserve with which he behaves towards me. The less friendship he expresses for me, the more he makes me his friend; I cannot tell you how much I dreaded lest he should load me with caresses. This was the first trial I prepared for him, there is yet another by which I intend to prove him; and after that I shall cease all farther examination. As to the circumstance you mentioned, said I, it only proves the frankness of his disposition; for he would never resolve to put on a pliant and submissive air before my father, though it was so much his interest, and I so often intreated him to do it. I saw with concern that his behaviour deprived him of the only resource, and yet could not dislike him for not being able to play the hypocrite on any occasion. The case is very different, replied my husband: there is a natural antipathy between your father and him, founded on the opposition of their sentiments. With regard to myself, who have no symptoms or prejudices, I am certain that he can have no natural aversion to me. No one can hate me; a man without passions cannot inspire any one with an aversion towards him: but I deprived him of the object of his wishes, which he will not readily forgive. He will however conceive the stronger affection for me, when he is perfectly convinced that the injury I have done him does not prevent me from looking upon him with an eye of kindness. If he caressed me now, he would be a hypocrite; if he never caresses me, he will be a monster.
Such, my dear Clara, is the situation we are in, and I begin to think that heaven will bless the integrity of our hearts, and the kind intentions of my husband. But I am too kind to you in entering into all these details; you do not deserve that I should take such pleasure in conversing with you; but I am determined to tell you no more, and if you desire farther information, you must come hitherto receive it.
P. S. I must acquaint you nevertheless with what has passed with respect to the subject of this letter. You know with what indulgence Mr. Wolmar received the late confession which our friend’s unexpected return obliged me to make. You saw with what tenderness he endeavoured to dry up my tears, and dispel my shame. Whether, as you reasonably conjectured, I told him nothing new, or whether he was really affected by a proceeding which nothing but sincere repentance could dictate, he has not only continued to live with me as before, but he even seems to have increased his attention, his confidence, and esteem, as if he meant, by his kindness, to repay the confusion which my confession cost me. My dear Clara, you know my heart; judge then what an impression such a conduct must make!
As soon as I found that he was determined to let our old friend come hither, I resolved on my part, to take the best precautions I could contrive against myself: which was to chuse my husband himself for my confident; to hold no particular conversation, which I did not communicate to him, and to write no letter which I did not shew to him. I even made it a part of my duty to write every letter as if it was not intended for his inspection, and afterwards to shew it to him.
You will find an article in this which was penned on this principle; if while I was writing, I could not forbear thinking that he might read it, yet my conscience bears witness that I did not alter a single word on that account; but when I shewed him my letter, he bantered me, and had not the civility to read it.
I confess that I was somewhat piqued at his refusal; as if he had doubted my honour. My emotion did not escape his notice, and this most open and generous man soon removed my apprehensions. Confess, said he, that you have said less concerning me than usual in that letter. I owned it; was it decent to say much of him, when I intended to shew him what I had written? Well, he replied with a smile, I had rather that you would talk of me more, and not know what you say of me.
Afterwards, he continued, in a more serious tone; Marriage, said he, is too grave and solemn a state to admit of that free communication which tender friendship allows. The latter connection often happily contributes to moderate the rigour of the former; and it may be reasonable in some cases for a virtuous and discreet woman to seek for that comfort, intelligence, and advice from a faithful confident, which it might not be proper for her to desire of her husband. Though nothing passes between you but what you would chuse to communicate, yet take care not to make it a duty, lest that duty should become a restraint upon you, and your correspondence grow less agreeable by being more diffusive. Believe me, the open-hearted sincerity of friendship is restrained by the presence of a witness, whoever it be.
There are a thousand secrets of which three friends ought to participate; but which cannot be communicated but between two. You may impart the same things to your friend and to your husband, but you do not relate them in the same manner; and if you will confound these distinctions, the consequence will be, that your letters will be addressed more to me than to her, and that you will not be free from restraint either with one or the other. It is as much for my own interest as for yours, that I urge these reasons. Do not you perceive that you are already, with good reason, apprehensive of the indelicacy of praising me to my face? Why will you deprive yourself of the pleasure of acquainting your friend how tenderly you love your husband, and me of the satisfaction of supposing that in your most private intercourses, you take delight in speaking well of me? Eloisa!
Eloisa! he added, pressing my hand, and looking at me with tenderness, why will you demean yourself by taking precautions so unworthy of you, and will you never learn to make a true estimate of your own worth?
My dear friend, it is impossible to tell you how this incomparable man behaves to me: I no longer blush in his presence. Spite of my frailty, he lifts me above myself, and by dint of reposing confidence in me, he teaches me to deserve it.
Letter CXXVII. Answer.
Impossible! our traveller returned, and have I not yet seen him at my feet, loaded with the spoils of America? But it is not him, I assure you, whom I accuse of this delay; for I am sensible it is as grievous to him as to me: but I find that he has not so thoroughly forgotten his former state of servility as you pretend, and I complain less of his neglect, than of your tyranny. It is very droll in you indeed, to desire such a prude as I am, to make the first advances, and run to salute a swarthy pockfretten face, which has passed four times under the line. But you make me smile to see you in such haste to scold, for fear I should begin first. I should be glad to know what pretence you have to make such an attempt? Quarrelling is my talent. I take pleasure in it, I acquit myself to a miracle, and it becomes me well; but you, my dear cousin, are a mere novice at this work. If you did but know how graceful you appear in the act of confession, how lovely you look with a supplicating eye, and an air of confusion, instead of scolding you would spend your days in asking pardon, were it only out of coquetry.
For the present, you must ask my pardon in every respect. A fine project truly, to chuse a husband for a confident, and a most obliging precaution indeed for a friendship so sacred as ours! Thou faithless friend, and pusillanimous woman! On whom can you depend, if you mistrust yourself and me? Can you, without offence to both, considering the sacred tie under which you live, suspect your own inclinations and my indulgence? I am amazed that the very idea of admitting a third person into the tittle tattle secrets of two women, did not disgust you! As for my part, I love to prattle with you at my ease, but if I thought that the eye of man ever pried into my letters, I should no longer have any pleasure in corresponding with you; such a reserve would insensibly introduce a coldness between us, and we should have no more regard for each other than two indifferent women.
To what inconveniences your silly distrust would have exposed us, if your husband had not been wiser than you!
He acted very discreetly in not reading your letter. Perhaps he would have been less satisfied with it than you imagine, and less than I am myself, who am better capable of judging of your present condition, by the fate in which I have seen you formerly. All those contemplative sages who have passed their lives in the study of the human heart, are less acquainted with the real symptoms of love, than the most shallow woman, if she has any sensibility. Mr. Wolmar would immediately have observed that our friend was the subject of your whole letter, and he would not have seen the postscript, in which you do not once mention him. If you had written this postscript ten years ago, my dear, I cannot tell how you would have managed, but your friend would certainly have been crowded into some corner, especially as there was no husband to overlook it.
Mr. Wolmar would have observed farther with what attention you examined his guest, and the pleasure you take in describing his person; but he might devour Plato and Aristotle, before he would know that we _look at_ a lover, but do not _examine_ him. All examination requires a degree of indifference, which we never feel when we behold the object of our passion.
In short, he would imagine that all the alterations you remark might have escaped another, and I on the contrary was afraid of finding that they had escaped you. However your guest may be altered from what he was, he would appear the same, if your affections were not altered.
You turn away your eyes whenever he looks at you; this is a very good symptom. You _turn them away_, cousin? You do not now _cast them down_? Surely you have not mistaken one word for another. Do you think that our philosopher would have perceived this distinction?
There is another circumstance very likely to disturb a husband; it is a kind of tenderness and affection which still remains in your stile, when you speak of the object who was once so dear to you. One who reads your letters, or hears you speak, ought to be well acquainted with you, not to be mistaken with regard to your sentiments; he ought to know that it is only a friend to whom you are speaking, or that, you speak in the same manner of all your friends; but as to that, it is the natural effect of your disposition, with which your husband is too well acquainted to be alarmed. How is it possible but that, in a mind of such tenderness, pure friendship will bear some resemblance to love? Pray observe, my dear cousin, that all I say to you on this head ought to inspire you with fresh courage: your conduct is discreet, and that is a great deal; I used to trust only to your virtue, but I begin now to rely on your reason; I consider your cure at present, though not perfect, yet as easily accomplished, and you have now made a sufficient progress, to render you inexcusable if you do not compleat it.
Before I came to your postscript, I remarked the passage which you had the sincerity not to suppress or alter, though conscious that it would be open to your husband’s inspection. I am certain, that if he had read it, it would, if possible, have doubled his esteem for you; nevertheless it would have given him no great pleasure. Upon the whole, your letter was very well calculated to make him place an entire confidence in your conduct, but at the same time it tended to give him uneasiness with respect to your inclinations. I own those marks of the small-pox, which you view so much, give me some apprehensions; love never yet contrived a more dangerous disguise. I know that this would be of no consequence to any other; but always remember, Eloisa, that she who was not to be reduced by the youth and fine figure of her lover, was lost when she reflected on the sufferings he had endured for her. Providence no doubt intended that he should retain the marks of that distemper, to exercise your virtue,