I now set about carrying my plan of life into effect. I
began with ardent zeal and unwearied diligence the career
of medical study. 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 pleasureable than I had imagined.
My mind gladly expanded itself, as it were, for the
reception of new ideas. My curiosity grew more eager, in

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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 behavior, 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

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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 fervor,
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

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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 humor 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?—O! 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

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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
dairy-woman, 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. Perhaps
Oliver left the market earlier than he used to do; or you
mistook the house; or, perhaps, some poor creature was
sick, was taken suddenly ill, and you were busy in chafing
his clay-cold limbs; it fell to you to wipe the clammy drops
from his brow. Such things often happen; don't they,
Arthur, to people of your trade, amd some such thing has
happened now; and that was the reason you did not write.

And if so, shall I repine at your silence? O no! At such
a time the poor Bess might easily be, and ought to be forgotten.
She would not deserve your love, if she could
repine at a silence brought about this way.

And O! May it be so! May there be nothing worse than
this. If the sick man—see, Arthur, how my hand trembles.
Can you read this scrawl? What is always bad, my fears
make worse than ever.

I must not think that. And yet, if it be so, if my friend
himself be sick, what will become of me? Of me, that
ought to cherish you and comfort you; that ought to be
your nurse. Endure for you your sickness, when she cannot
remove it.

O! that—I will speak out—O! that this strange scruple
had never possessed you. Why should I not be with
you? Who can love you and serve you as well as I? In
sickness and health, I will console and assist you. Why
will you deprive yourself of such a comforter, and such an
aid as I would be to you?

Dear Arthur, think better of it. Let me leave this dreary
spot, where, indeed, as long as I am thus alone, I can enjoy
no comfort. Let me come to you. I will put up with any
thing for the sake of seeing you, though it be but once a
day. Any garret or cellar in the dirtiest lane or darkest

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alley, will be good enough for me. I will think it a palace,
so that I can but see you now and then.

Do not refuse—do not argue with me, so fond you always
are of arguing! My heart is set upon your compliance.
And yet, dearly as I prize your company, I would not ask
it, if I thought there was any thing improper. You say there
is, and you talk about it in a way that I do not understand.
For my sake, you tell me, you refuse, but let me entreat
you to comply for my sake.

Your pen cannot teach me like your tongue. You write
me long letters, and tell me a great deal in them, but my
soul droops when I call to mind your voice and your looks,
and think how long a time must pass before I see you and
hear you again. I have no spirit to think upon the words
and paper before me. My eye and my thought wander far
away.

I bethink me how many questions I might ask you; how
many doubts you might clear up if you were but within hearing.
If you were but close to me; but I cannot ask them
here. I am too poor a creature at the pen, and, somehow
or another, it always happens, I can only write about myself
or about you. By the time I have said all this, I have tired
my fingers, and when I set about telling you how this poem
and that story have affected me, I am at a loss for words; I
am bewildered and bemazed as it were.

It is not so when we talk to one another. With your arm
about me, and your sweet face close to mine, I can prattle
forever. Then my heart overflows at my lips. After hours
thus spent, it seems as if there were a thousand things still
to be said. Then I can tell you what the book has told me.
I can repeat scores of verses by heart, though I heard them
only once read, but it is because you have read them to me.

Then there is nobody here to answer my questions.
They never look into books. They hate books. They
think it waste of time to read. Even Peggy, who you say
has naturally a strong mind, wonders what I can find to
amuse myself in a book. In her playful mood, she is always
teazing me to lay it aside.

I do not mind her, for I like to read; but if I did not like
it before, I could not help doing so ever since you told me

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that nobody could gain your love who was not fond of books.
And yet, though I like it on that account, more than I did, I
don't read somehow so earnestly, and understand so well as
I use to do, when my mind was all at ease; always frolicsome,
and ever upon tiptoe, as I may say.

How strangely, (have you not observed is?) I am altered
of late; I that was ever light of heart, the very soul of gaiety,
brimfull of glee—am now, demure as our old tabby—and
not half as wise. Tabby had wit enough to keep her paws
out of the coals, whereas poor I have—but no matter what.
It will never come to pass, I see that. So many reasons for
every thing! Such looking forward! Arthur, are not men
sometimes too wise to be happy?

I am now so grave. Not one smile can Peggy sometimes
get from me, though she tries for it the whole day. But I
know how it comes. Strange, indeed, if losing father and
sister, and thrown upon the wide world, pennyless and friendless
too, now that you forget me; I should continue to smile.
No. I never shall smile again. At least, while I stay here,
I never shall, I believe.

If a certain somebody suffer me to live with him—near
him, I mean: perhaps the sight of him as he enters the
door, perhaps the sound of his voice, asking—“where is my
Bess?”—might produce a smile. Such a one as the very
thought produces now—yet not, I hope, so transient, and so
quickly followed by a tear. Women are born, they say,
to trouble, and tears are given them for their relief. 'Tis
all very true.

Let it be as I wish, will you? If Oliver bring not back
good tidings, if he bring not a letter from thee, or thy letter
still refuses my request,—I don't know what may happen.
Consent, if you love your poor girl.