But still, Grandison, said he, this poor girl!—­She could not have been so deeply affected, had not some lover-like arts—­

Let me, my lord, interrupt you—­I cannot bear an imputation of this kind.  Had such arts been used, the lady could not have been so much affected.  Cannot you think of your noble sister, as a daughter of the two houses from which you sprang?  Cannot you see her, as by Mrs. Beaumont’s means we now so lately have been able to see her, struggling nobly with her own heart, [Why am I put upon this tender subject?] because of her duty and her religion; and resolved to die rather than encourage a wish that was not warranted by both?—­I cannot, my lord, urge this subject:  but there never was a passion so nobly contended with.  There never was a man more disinterested, and so circumstanced.  Remember only, my voluntary departure from Bologna, against persuasion; and the great behaviour of your sister on that occasion; great, as it came out to be, when Mrs. Beaumont brought her to acknowledge what would have been my glory to have known, could it have been encouraged; but is now made my heaviest concern.

Indeed, Grandison, she ever was a noble girl!  We are too apt perhaps to govern ourselves by events, without looking into causes:  but the access you had to her; such a man! and who became known to us from circumstances so much in his favour, both as a man of principle and bravery—­

This, my lord, interrupted I, is still judging from events.  You have seen Mrs. Beaumont’s letter.  Surely you cannot have a nobler monument of magnanimity in woman!  And to that I refer, for a proof of my own integrity.

I have that letter:  Jeronymo gave it me, at my taking leave of him; and with these words:  ’Grandison will certainly visit you at Naples.  I am afraid of your warmth.  His spirit is well known.  All my dependance is upon his principles.  He will not draw but in his own defence.  Cherish the noble visitor.  Surely, brother, I may depend upon your hospitable temper.  Read over again this letter, before you see him.’—­I have not yet read it, proceeded the general; but I will, and that, if you will allow me, now.

He took it out of his pocket, walked from me, and read it; and then came to me, and took my hand—­I am half ashamed of myself, my dear Grandison:  I own I wanted magnanimity.  All the distresses of our family, on this unhappy girl’s account, were before my eyes, and I received you, I behaved to you, as the author of them.  I was contriving to be dissatisfied with you:  Forgive me, and command my best services.  I will let our Jeronymo know how greatly you subdued me before I had recourse to the letter; but that I have since read that part of it which accounts for my sister’s passion, and wish I had read it with equal attention before.  I acquit you:  I am proud of my sister.  Yet I observe from this very letter, that Jeronymo’s gratitude has contributed to the evil we deplore.  But—­Let us not say one word more of the unhappy girl:  It is painful to me to talk of her.