I
bespoke the counsels and instructions of my friend; attended him on his
professional visits, and acted, in all practicable cases, as his
substitute. I found this application of time more pleasurable than I had
imagined. My mind gladly expanded itself, as it were, for the reception
of new ideas. My curiosity grew more eager in proportion as it was
supplied with food, and every day added strength to the assurance that I
was no insignificant and worthless being; that I was destined to be
_something_ in this scene of existence, and might some time lay claim to
the gratitude and homage of my fellow men. I was far from being, however, monopolized by these pursuits. I was
formed on purpose for the gratification of social intercourse. To love
and to be loved; to exchange hearts and mingle sentiments with all the
virtuous and amiable whom my good fortune had placed within the circuit
of my knowledge, I always esteemed my highest enjoyment and my chief
duty. Carlton and his sister, Mrs. Wentworth, and Achsa Fielding, were my most
valuable associates beyond my own family. With all these my
correspondence was frequent and unreserved, but chiefly with the latter. This lady had dignity and independence, a generous and enlightened
spirit, beyond what her education had taught me to expect. She was
circumspect and cautious in her deportment, and was not prompt to make
advances, or accept them. She withheld her esteem and confidence until
she had full proof of their being deserved. I am not sure that her treatment of me was fully conformable to her
rules. My manners, indeed, as she once told me, she had never met with
in another. Ordinary rules were so totally overlooked in my behaviour,
that it seemed impossible for any one who knew me to adhere to them. No
option was left but to admit my claims to friendship and confidence
instantly, or to reject them altogether. I was not conscious of this singularity. The internal and undiscovered
character of another weighed nothing with me in the question whether
they should be treated with frankness or reserve. I felt no scruple on
any occasion to disclose every feeling and every event. Any one who
could listen found me willing to talk. Every talker found me willing to
listen. Every one had my sympathy and kindness, _without_ claiming it;
but I _claimed_ the kindness and sympathy of every one. Achsa Fielding's countenance bespoke, I thought, a mind worthy to be
known and to be loved. The first moment I engaged her attention, I told
her so. I related the little story of my family, spread out before her
all my reasonings and determinations, my notions of right and wrong, my
fears and wishes. All this was done with sincerity and fervour, with
gestures, actions, and looks, in which I felt as if my whole soul was
visible. Her superior age, sedateness, and prudence, gave my deportment
a filial freedom and affection, and I was fond of calling her "_mamma_." I particularly dwelt upon the history of my dear country-girl; painted
her form and countenance; recounted our dialogues, and related all my
schemes for making her wise, and good, and happy. On these occasions my
friend would listen to me with the mutest attention. I showed her the
letters I received, and offered her for her perusal those which I wrote
in answer, before they were sealed and sent. On these occasions she would look by turns on my face and away from me. A varying hue would play upon her cheek, and her eyes were fuller than
was common, of meaning. "Such-and-such," I once said, "are my notions; now, what do _you_
think?" "_Think_!" emphatically, and turning somewhat aside, she answered;
"that you are the most--_strange_ of human creatures." "But tell me," I resumed, following and searching her averted eyes; "am
I right? would you do thus? Can you help me to improve my girl? I wish
you knew the bewitching little creature. How would that heart overflow
with affection and with gratitude towards you! She should be your
daughter. No--you are too nearly of an age for that. A sister; her
_elder_ sister, you should be. _That_, when there is no other relation,
includes them all. Fond sisters you would be, and I the fond brother of
you both." My eyes glistened as I spoke. In truth, I am in that respect a mere
woman. My friend was more powerfully moved. After a momentary struggle
she burst into tears. "Good heaven!" said I, "what ails you? Are you not well?" Her looks betrayed an unaccountable confusion, from which she quickly
recovered:--"It was folly to be thus affected. Something ailed me, I
believe, but it is past. But, come, you want some lines of finishing the
description of the _Boa_ in La Cepide." "True. And I have twenty minutes to spare. Poor Franks is very ill
indeed, but he cannot be seen till nine. We'll read till then." Thus on the wings of pleasure and improvement passed my time; not
without some hues, occasionally, of a darker tint. My heart was now and
then detected in sighing. This occurred when my thoughts glanced at the
poor Eliza, and measured, as it were, the interval between us. "We are
too--_too_ far apart," thought I. The best solace on these occasions was the company of Mrs. Fielding; her
music, her discourse, or some book which she set me to rehearsing to
her. One evening, when preparing to pay her a visit, I received the
following letter from my Bess:--

          _To A. Mervyn._

          CURLING'S, May 6, 1794. Where does this letter you promised me stay all this while? Indeed,
Arthur, you torment me more than I deserve, and more than I could ever
find it in my heart to do you. You treat me cruelly. I must say so,
though I offend you. I must write, though you do not deserve that I
should, and though I fear I am in a humour not very fit for writing. I
had better go to my chamber and weep; weep at your--_unkindness_, I was
going to say; but, perhaps, it is only forgetfulness; and yet what can
be more unkind than forgetfulness? I am sure I have never forgotten you. Sleep itself, which wraps all other images in forgetfulness, only brings
you nearer, and makes me see you more distinctly. But where can this letter stay?--Oh! that--hush! foolish girl! If a word
of that kind escape thy lips, Arthur will be angry with thee; and then,
indeed, thou mightest weep in earnest. _Then_ thou wouldst have some
cause for thy tears. More than once already has he almost broken thy
heart with his reproaches. Sore and weak as it now is, any new
reproaches would assuredly break it quite. I _will_ be content. I will be as good a housewife and dairywoman, stir
about as briskly, and sing as merrily, as Peggy Curling. Why not? I am
as young, as innocent, and enjoy as good health. Alas! she has reason to
be merry. She has father, mother, brothers; but I have none. And he that
was all these, and more than all these, to me, has--_forgotten_ me. But, perhaps, it is some accident that hinders.