The Heavy Heart of Homecoming — Evelina, Or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World

Villars is at the window with his hands lifted before Evelina can leave the chaise. She opens the door herself, crosses into the parlour as if her feet do not touch the floor, and finds him sunk in his chair, face bright, voice almost gone. She weeps over his hands and cannot speak. He folds her in and can barely form the blessings. Loved like this, by the best of men, she ought to be happy. The inner sadness unfits her for the bounty in front of her.

She had obeyed without reluctance. Clinton brought the summons, Madame Duval let her go once it was plain that Du Bois meant nothing to her, and the Branghtons came to take leave. She will not describe that family. She blames their forwardness for the uneasiness she still carries. On the road the low spirits were so obvious that Clinton thought her ill, and Evelina would have preferred a bodily pain. She had wanted to leave London. She had wanted Berry Hill. Neither wish made her happy. She had pictured telling Maria every secret first. Maria is not here, and the days will not sort themselves into a journal.

Situation, she writes, has little to do with happiness. She had expected tranquillity to return with the house, and she has never had less intercourse with it. She hides the gravity in Villars's presence, because the restraint is painful, and she spends it on Maria. Then she warns her friend not to misread the cause. The heart is not mourning a too great susceptibility. It was never more assuredly her own than in this letter. Berry Hill holds the man she loves most, and the heaviness she could not leave in London.