Nelson's Lady Hamilton by Meynell, Esther (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📗

Christian. The best is a publick-house for the sailers of such ships as is obliged to put in there, so you see there is no possibility of going to either of those places. Has to where I am, I find it very comfortable, considering from you. I am in the house of a Laidy, whose husband is at sea. She and her granmother live together, and we board with her at present, till I hear from you. The price is high, but they don't lodge anybody without boarding; and as it is comfortable,

decent, and quiet, I thought it wou'd not ruin us, till I could have your oppionon, which I hope to have freely and without restraint, as, believe me, you will give it to one who will allways be happy to follow it, lett it be what it will ; as I am sure you wou'd not lead me wrong. And though my little temper may have been sometimes high, believe me, I have allways thought you right in the end, when I have come to reason. I bathe, and find the water very soult. Here is a good many laidys batheing, but I have no society with them, as it is best not. So pray, my dearest Greville, write soon, and tell me what to do, as I will do just what you think proper ; and tell me what to do with the child. For she is a great romp, and I can hardly master her. I don't think she is ugly, but I think her greatly improved. She is tall, good eyes and brows, and as to lashes, she will be passible; but she has overgrown all her cloaths. I am making and mending all as I can for her. . . . Pray, my dear Greville, do lett me come home as soon as you can ; for I am all most broken-hearted being from you. I wish I could not think on you ; but, if I was the greatest laidy in the world, I should not be happy from you. So don't lett me stay long. Tell Sir William everything you can, and tell him I am sorry our sittuation prevented me from giving him a kiss, but my heart was ready to break. But I will give him one, and entreat if

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he will axcept it. Ask him how I looked, and lett him say something kind to me when you write. Indead, my dear Greville, you don't know how much I love you, and your behaiver to me, when we parted, was so kind, Greville, I don't know what to do; but I will make you a mends by my kind behaviour to you. For I have grattude, and I will show it you all I can. So don't think of my faults, Greville. Think of all my good, and blot out all my bad : for it is all gone and berried, never to come again. So, good-by, dear Greville. Think of nobody but me, for I have not a thought but of you. God bless you and believe me Your Truly and Affectionately. EMMA HART."

Again she adds a postscript to say, " Poor Emma gives her duty to you. I bathe her. The people is very civil to ous. I give a guinea and a half a week for ous all together, but you will tell me what to do. God bless you, my dear Greville. I long to see you, for endead I am not happy from you, tho' I will stay if you like till a week before you go home, but I must go first. I hav had no letter from you, and you promised to write to me before I left home. It made me unhappy."

Her letters were added to day by day, so that they form a sort of diary of her doings—and, still

more, her feelings—while separated from her "ever dear Greville," and waiting and watching for the letters which were so long in coming. She begins her next epistle—

" How teadous does the time pass awhay till I hear from you. Endead, I should be miserable if I did not recollect on what happy terms we parted — parted, yess, but to meet again with tenfould happiness. ... If you had not behaved with such angel-like goodness to me at parting, it would not have had such effect on me. I have done nothing but think of you since. And, oh, Greville, did you but know, when I so think, what thoughts—what tender thoughts, you would say ' Good God! and can Emma have such feeling sensibility ? No, I never could think it. But now I may hope to bring her to conviction, and she may prove a valluable and amiable whoman!' True, Greville! and you shall not be disappointed. I will be everything you can wish. But mind you, Greville, your own great goodness has brought this about. You don't know what I am become. Would you think it, Greville ? Emma—the wild, unthinking Emma, is a grave, thoughtful phylosopher. 'Tis true, Greville, and I will convince you I am, when I see you. But how I am runing on. I say nothing abbout this guidy, wild girl of mine. What shall we do with her, Greville ? She is as wild and as thoughtless as somebody, when she

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was a little girl; so you may gess how that is. ... Would you believe, on Sattarday we had a little quarel, I mean Emma and me; and I did slap her on her hands, and when she came to