When he came in to me, I arose, and threw myself at his feet; but could only say, Thank you, sir, for your goodness to my mother.  He raised me.  He sat down by me:  See, child, (said he, and he took my hand:  my heart was sensible of the favour, and throbbed with joy,) what it is in the power of people of fortune to do.  You have a great one.  Now your mother is married, I have hopes of her.  They will at least keep up appearances to each other, and to the world.  They neither of them want sense.  You have done an act of duty and benevolence both in one.  The man who would grudge them this additional 200L. a year out of your fortune, to make your parent happy, shall not have my Emily—­Shall he?

Your Emily, your happy Emily, sir, has not, cannot have a heart that is worth notice, if it be not implicitly guided by you.—­This I said, madam:  and it is true.

And did he not, said I, clasp his Emily to his generous bosom, when you said so?

No, madam; that would have been too great an honour:  but he called me, good child! and said, you shall never be put to pay me an implicit regard:  your own reason (and he called me child again) shall always be the judge of my conduct to you, and direct your observances of my advice.  Something like this he said; but in a better manner than I can say it.

He calls me oftener child, madam, than any thing else when we are alone together; and is not quite so free, I think, at such times, in his behaviour to me, (yet is vastly gracious, I don’t know how,) as when we are in company—­Why is that?  I am sure, I equally respect him, at one time as at another—­Do you think, madam, there is any thing in the observation?  Is there any reason for it?—­I do love to study him, and to find out the meaning of his very looks as well as words.  Sir Charles Grandison’s heart is the book of heaven—­May I not study it?

Study it, my love! while you have an opportunity.  But he will soon leave us:  he will soon leave England.

So I fear:  and I will love and pity the poor Clementina, whose heart is so much wounded and oppressed.  But my guardian shall be nobody’s but yours.  I have prayed night and day, the first thing and the last thing, ever since I have heard of Lady Clementina, that you, and nobody but you, may be Lady Grandison:  and I will continue my prayers.—­But will you forgive me:  I always conclude them with praying, that you will both consent to let the poor Emily live with you.

Sweet girl!  The poor Emily, said she?—­I embraced her, and we mingled tears, both our hearts full, each for the other; and each perhaps for herself.

She hurried away.  I resumed my pen.—­Run off what had passed, almost as swift as thought.  I quit it to prepare to attend my cousins to St. James’s-square.

LETTER XIV

Miss Byron.—­In continuation
Wednesday night, April 5.