I N T H R E E V O L U M E S.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
B E N E D I C T A
and P O W I S
C A S T L E.
V O L. I.
Love is
not Sin, but where ’tis sinful Love,
Mine is a Flame so holy and so clear,
That the white Taper leaves no Soot behind,
No Smoke of Lust.
DRYDEN.
L O N D O N:
PRINTED
AT THE
Minerva Press,
LEADENHALL-STREET.
M DCC XCII.
A S H T O N P
R I O R Y.
CHAP. I.
Characteristic Sketches.
SIR Bevil Grimstone had passed the meridian of life without having
entered into the matrimonial connection.
In the younger part of his life he had possessed the advantages of a
showy person, an assured air, together with that facility of utterance, which,
though certainly not wit, nor any ways related thereto, often passes with the
multitude for the quality itself;—of course, he had figured in the beau monde with no inconsiderable éclat: but time, whose
depredations, all things, sooner or later, confess, had wrought some unfriendly
effects on the figure of the baronet; such as undermining a tooth or two, sallowing the freshness of his complexion, and planting a
few wrinkles in his forehead. Yet, in spite of all, (as habit is allowed to
become by long indulgence a sort of second nature,) his passion for dress still
existed, though the smiles of the female world had long since been transferred
to beaux of a more recent generation. In the circles of the fair, therefore, he
could only discover the ghosts of his former pleasures, which induced him to
retire in disgust to scenes in which he was in no fear of being overlooked as
an insignificant person. The truth is, Sir Bevil, at the time we are now
speaking of, was a professed gamester, and his finances were in that state of
derangement, that his fortune might truly be said to depend on the four aces.
Miss Grimstone,
who was about eight or ten years younger than her brother, (with whom she
resided,) and though rather on the wrong side of forty-five, would, if the most
flippant airs and girlish affectation could have affected the point, have
passed herself on the world for a blooming lass of twenty. Her temper, indeed,
was not very amiable; but as this was a circumstance discoverable only by her
domestics, which class of people are usually supposed to possess neither
feeling or discernment, we shall pass it over in silence. Suffice it to say,
that by an outrageous affectation of delicacy, she had contrived to be esteemed
by all her acquaintance as a lady of the most consummate prudence and rigid
virtue, and her tea-table and routs were the resort of the fashionable of both
sexes.
The baronet and his sister were
lolling one day after dinner in an easy careless manner, with all that
complaisant attention to each other which persons long used to the society of
one another are commonly observed to bestow, when, after a profound silence,
Sir Bevil, stretching himself in his easy chair, and extending his legs in a
parallel direction towards the fire, exclaimed that the town was horridly dull.
“I think (said the lady, with a most
becoming yawn) you were at White’s last night, brother: had you a good run?”
“No, faith! My unlucky star has prevailed for some
months past, and I must devise a scheme of reimbursement, or take a trip to the
continent.”
All was again silent. At length the
baronet, rising from his chair, and leaning with his back against the
chimney-piece, resumed,
“Charlotte Overbury is really a
prodigious fine girl.”
“I wonder you can think so. There is
nothing at all striking in her figure; and, as for her air, it is quite
destitute of the majesty one sees in some women.”
Miss Grimstone,
uttering the words some women
with particular emphasis, had quitted her chair in order to exemplify her meaning
by a solemn movement, to which, in her own opinion, she had affixed the
appellation of dignity. “But indeed, Sir Bevil, (resumed she,) you and I always
disagreed in our notions of these things.”
“Why,—did you ever see a more
elegant shape? Her complexion, though purely natural, is not inferior to your
own, sister;—and then her teeth and eyes”——
There was something or other in this
speech which occasioned the lady to redden pretty deeply, could the blush have
penetrated enamel; but, not choosing to discover her chagrin, she hastily
interrupted him by saying, that, for her part, she never admired black eyes. “I
prefer the dove-like softness of the blue; however, Sir Bevil, you must
acknowledge her nose to be quite foreign to the standard of beauty.”
“Why so?”
“It is frightfully prominent I am
sure, and not very unlike the beak of a hawk.”
“You have egregiously mistaken the
matter, sister.
“You have an odd taste, truly. Well,
since we are upon the subject, what say you to the colour of her hair? Is it
not something like the hue of our curate’s canonical coat? Ha, ha, ha!”
“And even that grace (somewhat
spitefully) would be preferable to an iron grey: but the truth is, Miss Overbury’s hair is an exact auburn,—the very colour so much
extolled by the poets. However, to wave a point which I perceive you are no
ways disposed to admit, I must tell you that, as she is now turned of
seventeen, I think it high time she should be introduced to company, or, in
other words, see something of genteel life.”
Now, as Sir Bevil possessed not the
advantage of a window in his breast, which an ancient sage deemed so eligible a
thing, and as Miss Grimstone was not endowed with the
faculty of divining, it happened that she did not at all enter into his
meaning, and therefore replied, “Indeed, brother, I should suppose Miss
Overbury could not be more properly situated than at the school where she now
is; but, allowing she ought to mix in public life, where could you find a
proper family to place her with?”
“That question surprises me,
sister.—Where could a young lady of fortune be so prudently placed as in the
house of her guardian.”
“Surely you do not intend to make
her one of our family?”
“Indeed I do.—Am I not her guardian,
and of course in great measure responsible for her conduct to the world; nor,
as a conscientious man, could I well avoid so cautionary a resolution.”
As in those actions, of which we
suppose the world has a right to take cognizance, the motives are usually of
two distinct kinds,—the one secret, the other ostensible. So the baronet had
another, besides what he chose to avow to his sister, which will probably
appear in due order. Mean time we shall observe, that it was by no means
suitable to the aim which Miss Grimstone for the last
dozen years had pursued, to have a blooming girl of seventeen perpetually at
her elbow. It was actually worse than the affair of Penelope’s web; for,
whereas that grave matron only unravelled by night the quantity she had woven
by day, this would be unravelling the whole piece at one stroke.—It was not to
be permitted, and therefore Miss Grimstone resolved
to oppose the design by every method in her power. “Since (resumed she) the
girl must be taken from school, it were surely better to place her with her
other guardian in the country; for you know, brother, we see a vast deal of
company, which circumstance must unquestionably render our family a most
improper one for her.”
Sir Bevil at this suggestion burst
into a loud laugh.—“Send her into the country!” (reiterated he.) “You most
unconscionable creature, would you really have the cruelty to bury a lively
young girl in a dormitory? for, on my honour, Butterfield’s mansion is no
better. Some eight hundred years ago it was a Carthusian
monastery: it is true, the present proprietor has not much the air of one of
that austere order; for, by feeding pretty freely on roast beef and
plumb-pudding, his bulk exceeds that of a city-alderman. His head bears a nice
analogy to the attic story of his Gothic mansion; that is to say, it is the
receptacle of lumber; for, excepting the fag-ends of acts of parliament, he has
no idea above those of his fox-hounds; but what he wants of intelligence is
amply compensated by self-consequence. Being a justice of the Quorum, he has
been so long accustomed to harangue a parcel of petty constables and trembling
paupers, that he believes himself possessed of all the wisdom and ability which
the awe of the poor wretches before him would seem to imply, and, in fact, is
in his own estimation, as great a man as Cæsar
thundering in the Capitol.—His lady—”
“Aye, (cried Miss Grimstone,) pray let me have her character.”
“Is a person of excellent
accomplishments.”
“Accomplishments!—really?”—
“Oh, very great ones!—Having kept
her father’s house (who was a neighbouring fox-hunter to the justice) till she
had attained her five and twentieth year, a maiden aunt took her to town, in
order to put the finishing stroke to her elegant attainments, which consisted
of an extensive knowledge in the culinary art, a small insight into the method
of scrawling, for I will not say writing, and the being able to read a whole
page without the necessity of spelling above a score or two of words; and,
besides all this, she could go down more country-dances at a heat than any lady
in the country. Three months residence in the metropolis was sufficient to compleat so accomplished a personage by giving her so
refined an idea of the graces, that her behaviour is now the most ridiculous
jumble of native rusticity and affected politeness.—She will talk an hour
together on taste, elegance, and gentility; but, if you happen not to be
uncommonly ready at comprehension, it is much if you understand five words out
of ten that she speaks, she has so charming a knack of curtailing her
mother-tongue, transposing the situation of verbs and substantives, and so
wonderful a facility of illustrating her ideas by words of an opposite and
contradictory signification.”
Miss Grimstone,
all attention to her brother’s characteristics, waited in smiling silence for
him to proceed, when, unfortunately, he again touched the discordant note by
saying,—“Well, sister, would you really be so cruel as to immure poor Charlotte
in a dismal old mansion amongst such a set of uncivilized beings?”
To this question there was no answer
to be given, and the lady knowing her brother to be rather peremptory in his
designs, thought it most prudent to wave the subject.
C H A P. II.
The Heroine introduced.
HOWEVER incongruous
the opinions of mankind, there is one point in which all agree; namely, never
to suppose the existence of merit, except attended by the adventitious
circumstances of birth, wealth, or rank; to this prudent and liberal
determination it is owing that, whenever a new character starts on the public,
a thousand enquiries re-echo, “Who is it?” and, if the stranger (whether man or
woman) chances not to have a good herald at hand to inform the world that such
an one possesses a great deal of wit or other estimable qualities, he may
perhaps pass a whole life without meeting with any body quick sighted enough to
make the discovery. Now, though we cannot suppose but that the heroine of our
piece will tolerably well answer for herself, yet, being about to introduce her
to the world, we are desirous of observing all requisite etiquette on the
occasion, and not expose a timid young lady to the whisper so mortifying in the
ear of sensibility, “Who is she?”—“What is she?”—“Of what family?” All which
interesting particulars we mean to specify in this place, that the kind reader
may henceforth have nothing to do but attentively to mark the historic
thread,—to smile as often as he can,—and pacifically fall asleep when he gets
tired, which by the bye is a mode we would strenuously recommend to critical
novelists in general, as calculated to lull those acescent
humours which are apt to break forth in the exclamation, “A d——d dull thing!”
for, according to the opinion of our friend Yoric,
that every time a man laughs he adds something to the mortal span, we may
affirm that the said acescent humour is altogether
unfriendly to the delicate vessels of the human constitution,—it were actually
better to go to sleep.
But, for shame, don’t keep the lady
waiting thus in the anti-chamber;—open the door.—It is Miss Overbury.
The father of this young lady was
descended from a younger branch of the S—— family; but, wisely considering that
the enumeration of a hundred noble ancestors would not, as to the purposes of
life, prove an assignat worth a sous,
and that, though every artery and vein in the animal system were filled with
the best blood in Christendom, yet that circumstance could neither cause a man
to look plumper,—nor line his pockets with l’argent,—nor
add a shirt to his ruffles,—nor heighten the goût of
his soup maigre; &c.—I say, considering all these
things duly and properly, Mr. Overbury resolved to apply himself early to the
mercantile profession, by which, with much honour and reputation he realized
about fifty or sixty thousand pounds, and might have acquired as much more, had
he not been troubled with some sneaking propensities, which led him often to
remit of his just dues, where payment would have stretched the cord of ability
beyond a convenient degree of tension,—and sometimes to lend considerable sums
to those whose bond he would have deemed scarcely worth a farthing; by these,
and similar odd practices, he prevented the tide of fortune from exceeding the
limits before-mentioned. At his decease, his property was equally shared by his
two children, viz. a son, whom he had appointed to the service of his country
in the marine department, and the young lady, whose history will make a
conspicuous part of these memoirs. “If my children (said the old gentleman) are
what I wish them to be, the fortune they will inherit will be sufficient; if
they are not, it will be too much.”
Miss Overbury had now attained her
seventeenth year. From the death of her father she had resided at a capital
boarding-school near town, where she had gradually acquired every
accomplishment which constitutes a genteel woman. Nature had endowed her both
with an excellent understanding and great sweetness of temper, qualities which
could not fail to ensure her the esteem of those concerned in the care of her
education as well as the love of her young companions. When, Sir Bevil, on a
morning ride, informed her that it depended entirely on her own choice, either
to remain at school or make her residence in town, he received exactly the
answer he had expected: for, as it is the property of young minds to exalt the
idea of untried pleasures, Miss Overbury’s heart
dilated with rapture at the opportunity of exchanging the dulness
of a school for the variety of the capital. She therefore replied, that,
although she felt herself quite happy in her present situation, she should like
to see something more of life than hitherto she had been allowed to do.
“As I am confident, my sweet girl,
(said the baronet,) that you cannot make an improper choice, I hesitate not to
assure you that your will shall always determine mine, as both my duty and
inclination prompt me to pay the tenderest regard to your happiness.”
Charlotte, who possessed one of the
most grateful hearts in the world, melted into tears of rapture at an
expression so replete with paternal indulgence; and, unable to express her
feelings by any other mode, she took the hand of her guardian, and pressed it
to her lips. Her engaging sensibility affected him in a very particular manner,
but he judged it most prudent to give the conversation a different turn, by
enquiring when she had heard from her other guardian Mr. Butterfield.
“Not very lately Sir Bevil. I am a
letter indebted to him.”
“But, my dear Charlotte, the old
Somersetshire justice must know nothing of this scheme of ours until we have
actually put it in execution.”
“Surely he could have no objection.”
“Who knows what opinions so singular
a being might entertain;—the country people commonly suppose that when a
handsome young woman goes to London, she is running pell-mell to destruction. I
must allow there is something hazardous in it, but in my house and under my
eye, Miss Overbury”—
“There can be nothing at all to
fear,” rejoined she with a gaité de cœur which
the baronet thought infinitely agreeable; nor did he wish her possessed of one
grain of seriousness more than her deportment on this occasion seemed to
indicate.
In fine, within a few days, Miss
Overbury was removed from the family of Mrs. T—— to Sir Bevil’s
house in town, where she was received by Miss Grimstone,
with a sort of constrained civility,—a circumstance which in the hilarity of
her heart she did not at that time much attend to.
C H A P. III.
A Masquerade-Scene,—or a Hint to
Ladies of
a certain Description.
SIR Bevil Grimstone’s home was both spacious and elegant, and, in
order to convince his ward of his solicitude to render her situation eligible,
even in the minutest instance, he took care she
should be assigned the best apartment in it. His attention was next directed to
the establishment of her finances. Five hundred pounds, he said, for the
article of pin-money, was the smallest sum which could with propriey
be assigned her. “Yet, even thus, (added he,) I foresee we shall have some
difficulty in prevailing on the old miser in the country to consent to the
arrangement; but leave the affair to my management, Miss Overbury, and I will
engage you shall have every requisite for appearing in a suitable manner.”—Here
Miss Grimstone observed, that times were much altered
since the juvenile days of our grandmothers, when even fifty pounds per annum,
merely for the purposes of pocket-money, would have been deemed an exorbitant
sum.
“And you might have included your
own juvenile days, Grace, (replied he sarcastically:) but, as you say, times
are since much changed, and as things at present stand, I am positive my
amiable ward cannot appear with propriety on a less sum annually.’
Charlotte’s eyes applauded the
munificence of her guardian’s behaviour as much as they resented the
ill-natured parsimony of his sister, whose temper already began to appear in
its native colours on a variety of trifling incidents; nor could the pain she
felt at having a rival to her imaginary charms perpetually near her be
concealed by all the decorums of good breeding. The
first instance of its becoming strikingly apparent was on occasion of Miss Overbury’s first appearance at the theatre, when,
notwithstanding the remonstrances of her brother, the lady positively refused
to accompany her.—Sir Bevil was not unacquainted with the motives of his
sister’s disobliging deportment towards his ward, nor was he in fact really
displeased with it;—the bringing Miss Overbury to regard himself as the only
amiable person of the family was a point he thought much to be desired. “I am
not at all surprised, (said he to her,) that my sister’s jealousy of your
superior charms should have this unpleasing effect on a temper naturally unamiable; but do me the justice, my sweet girl, to believe
me most ardently devoted to the promoting your satisfaction.”
He had introduced her to some
respectable ladies of his acquaintance, in whose company she accompanied him to
the play-house; but, before the performance was half-finished, he began to
repent of his facility in ushering her to the attention of the public eye; the
lustre of her beauty, together with the novelty of her person attracted so
universal a gaze, that he determined henceforth rather to retard than
accelerate her acquaintance with the beau monde; but
it was not long before fortune shewed herself disposed to counteract so selfish
a measure.
Miss Grimstone
apparently to atone for her late unhandsome conduct invited Charlotte to
accompany her to a masked ball; but, in reality, her complaisance originated in
the reflexion that there was less cause to dread the
force of comparison in a promiscuous group than in a side-box at the theatre.
It was now the baronet’s turn to demur. He expressed an abhorrence of
masquerades in general, and adverted to the many ill consequences often
attendant on them, but fired with impatience to mingle in so novel a scene,
Charlotte espoused the point so warmly, that he thought it improper to make
farther objection. On the appointed day the ladies prepared for the ball, and
Miss Grimstone (very appositely no doubt) chose to
appear in the character of Hebe.
As this lady’s age was somewhat
declining from the meridian of life, it will probably appear surprising that
she should endeavour to personate immortal youth; yet such mistakes, we
presume, are common enough in the grand masquerade of the world, where pride
affects the exterior of affability,—rogues descant on honesty,—misers boast of
liberality,—and canonical epicures preach of temperance. Is it a matter of
wonder then that Miss Grace Grimstone should have
mistaken her proper character at a masked ball.
“And you, Charlotte, (said she,)
shall be an Arcadian shepherdess.”
“Truly, madam, I am no ways
enamoured of the romantic taste; but, if it must be something in a rural style,
suppose I were metamorphosed into a plain English milk-maid.”
“The very thing. I admire the
character of all things.”
An elegant suit of rooms being open
for the reception of the company, the usual flippant chit-chat began to pass
between the different masks, but the general observation was soon turned on the
singular attractions of our milk-maid’s shape and air, around whom a motley groupe was presently assembled, to whose impertinencies she
replied with all the gaiety of juvenile sprightliness, exhilirated
by the whimsical novelty of the scene around.
An Apollo, distinguished by a sun on
his breast, which was composed of brilliants of prodigious value, singled out
the cup-bearer to the Gods, expressing surprise at her being absent from the
ambrosial banquets, Hebe replied, that she had
obtained leave of absence for that evening; but, unluckily, the lady having
lost a tooth or two, her speech most impertinently betrayed the devastation. “O
ho! (cried a harlequin) I doubt your Godships are
somewhat riotous over your nectar, for it seems as though some of you had
fallen foul of Miss Hebe’s masticators.” A loud and
universal laugh here succeeded at the poor lady’s expence,
who, overpowered with chagrin, hastened to conceal her confusion in the crowd,
at the same time a mask in the character of time cried out, “I acquit their
divinities of that uncivil act. Here stands the offender, the implacable enemy
of beauty and all terrestrial excellence. Go, go, build your impregnable
towers, rear your splendid monuments of architectural skill, and I will level
them all with the dust as easily as I blast the lustre of a sparkling eye. Even
you, fair maiden, (turning to the milk-maid,) shall, in your turn, feel the
effects of my power,—that sprightly air shall droop; I’ll blast the lustre of
those brilliant twinklers.”
“I dread you not, insulting tyrant,
(replied she,) nor value ought which you have power to destroy: yet know, to
your mortification, that it shall be my care to acquire a treasure which your
utmost malice shall not injure; nay, farther, even your own rapacious hand
shall contribute to its improvement.”
“Bravely said, (cried Time.) I
pursue those who fly me with relentless cruelty, and smile only on them who
defy me.—Since you, fair lass, have courage to make one of that number,
henceforth know me for your friend; and, though I despoil half your sex of the
power of pleasing, my influence shall serve but to establish your’s.”
The company beginning to prepare for
dancing, our heroine’s hand was solicited by a tall graceful figure, in a blue
domino, who, during the evening had appeared to regard her with peculiar
attention; nor, when unmasked at the side-table, was he less charmed with the
beauty of her face than he before had been with the uncommon elegance of her
figure. There was in the person of this young gentleman so many striking agrémens, as
must have interested a heart less susceptible than was that of Miss Overbury;—a
set of features which justly might be called handsome, a certain expression of
superior intelligence, and upon the whole a je
ne sais quoi so irresistably striking, as rendered him in her estimation
the most agreeable man she had ever seen. This circumstance was doubtless the
very one which prevented her from observing herself closely watched by a person
in a white domino, who had been a close inspector of her actions for some time,
and who now came up to her in an interval of dancing, as her partner was
conversing with some masks at a little distance, and asked if she knew the name
of the gentleman she had been dancing with.
In this address, Charlotte, much
surprised, discovered the voice of Sir Bevil Grimstone,
who, she understood, had not intended being at the masquerade. On her
pleasantly rallying him on the privacy with which he had conducted himself on
the occasion, he replied, “I did not, my dear Charlotte, intend being present
at an amusement which I entirely dislike; but, upon reflection, I could not
rest satisfied in leaving an amiable girl wholly unprotected amidst scenes so
very inimical to her delicacy and character. From this motive I determined to
follow you,—but pray inform me who it is to whom you have given your hand.”
“Indeed, Sir Bevil, I am perfectly a
stranger to his name.”
The baronet was not, however, as
much at a loss in this respect as herself: he well knew the name and family of
the young gentleman; but, assuming an air of much solemnity, he resumed, “Not
acquainted even with his name, Miss Overbury?—You astonish me!—Is it possible
then you could consent to dance with a person you knew nothing of?”
“Good heavens! Sir Bevil, you alarm
me.—What impropriety have I been guilty of?”
“The greatest, madam. Your character
is perhaps ruined by this unguarded circumstance for ever. How could my sister
be so unpardonably negligent of her valuable charge! But come, since it is so,
let us make the best we can of it by retiring immediately.”
Too much alarmed by these terrible
suggestions to be able to make any objection, Charlotte suffered him to conduct
her to the carriage without so much as giving her partner the notice of a
parting glance. Greatly to her surprise, she found Miss Grimstone
already at home. It was a circumstance of a most unpleasing aspect: Charlotte
was inexpressibly hurt at it. To leave her in so ungenerous a manner, without
one intimate acquaintance in a place so pregnant with danger as Sir Bevil had
represented the scene she had left, was cruel,—was horrid. The alarming
suggestions of her guardian now struck her in a most formidable light, and had
so sensible an effect on her mind, that she retired to her own room with
visible marks of uneasiness, and prudently vowed never more to go to a
masquerade.
But, however unfriendly Miss Grimstone’s conduct on this occasion might appear, we must
do her the justice to own that her motives at this time contained nothing
hostile to the safety or reputation of Miss Overbury, nor indeed did she think
on the predicament which her precipitate retreat might possibly have placed
that young lady in. The simple fact was nothing more than finding herself
wholly unable to conquer those mortifying feelings which the unpleasing sarcasm
of the God of Day had excited in her bosom, she had privately retired from a
place where she could not but be assured the laugh was so much against her,
intending to indulge her vexation at home, where she expected to have no
witness of her chagrin, for she was very far from imagining her brother would
be at hand to receive her; but such happened actually to be the case.——“What,
sister! are you returned so early? Where is Miss Overbury.”
“How should I know?” peevishly.
“What do you mean? (alarmed.) Where
is she? What has happened? What”—
“Don’t put yourself in a fright,
brother. I left her very comfortably engaged in a cotillion.”
“Ungenerous, unfeeling woman, is it
thus you discharge the obligations which youth, beauty, and inexperience,
demand from you; or did you think her an object as unlikely to provoke danger
as yourself?”
Ill-fated woman!—but just escaped
from the most mortifying circumstances that ever befel
female vanity, and now, when thou soughtest to pour
out the feelings of thy wounded peace in retirement, to be cruelly insulted by
a brother’s sarcasm, it was too much;—nor can so uncivil a speech, dropping
from the lips of the polite Sir Bevil Grimstone, be
accounted for otherwise than by supposing that the interest he really felt in
whatever concerned his ward, occasioned him to see the behaviour of his sister
in so unfavourable a light, as to provoke him for once to over-step the bounds
of ceremony in the warmth with which he reproved her conduct.
However that may be, the poor lady
was dissolved in a paroxysm of grief and resentment, at the instant the baronet
left her, which he now did in order to supply her place at the masquerade,
equipping himself on the way with such an habit as he judged most proper for
the occasion.
C H A P. IV.
The delicate Embarrassment.
TOO much dissatisfied
within herself to relish the pleasures of conversation, Charlotte, on the
following morning, breakfasted in her own apartment, where her thoughts were
employed on a series of delicate and embarrassing reflections.—To have publickly danced with a person whose character might
perhaps destroy her own, or who at best was a low fellow, was a subject of the
most sensible mortification to her; yet there was something in his manners
which declared the gentleman, if a polite address and refined conversation
could give that denomination:—again, he was handsome, sprightly, and
entertaining; and, farther, had discovered an attention to herself very
different from the nature of common civility.—She would give the world for one
more half-hour’s conversation with him; probably he would call to enquire her
health;—what then? must she not positively refuse to see him, or forfeit, in
the opinion of her guardian, all pretensions to prudence?—Yet Sir Bevil might
not chance to be at home, and where would be the harm of civilly answering a
young gentleman’s enquiries after her health? Oh! but cried Pride, he is no
gentleman;—a fellow perhaps of despicable character,—one whom nobody knows. If
he calls, said she to herself, I will be denied to him. No sooner had this
prudent resolution passed, than a loud rap was heard at the door. “Is he come,
Jenny? cried she.—I will be at home.” “Who do you mean, madam?” replied the
girl. The question again awakened a very insulting reflection, and Charlotte
once more determined not to be at home. No visitor however was at that time
announced to her, nor did she quit her dressing-room till told that dinner was
on the table.
“How do you do to-day, Miss
Overbury?” said the baronet, with somewhat of a clouded aspect.
The emphatical
to-day reminded her of yesterday. She only returned a bow to the enquiry.
“Has your partner, madam, sent his
compliments this morning?”
Charlotte blushed, and returned a faint negative.
“Nor yet personally waited on you?”
“Neither, Sir Bevil,” coolly.
“A proof then, my dear, that his name can be no recommendation
to a lady’s acquaintance. You certainly acted very incautiously in the affair,
nor can I yet acquaint you with the worst consequences attending it.”
The pride and delicacy of our
heroine had already suffered too much by her own reflections, for her now to
stand the shock of farther aggravation:—she burst into tears. Sir Bevil,
alarmed at her emotion, felt his heart smite him for what he had advanced, and,
tenderly taking her hand, said, “Although, my sweet girl, there was much
imprudence in accepting a partner whom you knew nothing of, yet you must not be
too much alarmed. In a select assembly, the incident might perhaps have
afforded room for much unfavourable discussion, but in the motley group of a
masquerade, it probably was not noticed at all. Take courage then, madam, and
only be more guarded for the future.”
Charlotte felt herself much
encouraged by this speech, and politely thanking Sir Bevil for his attention to
her interest, said she hoped she should no more have occasion to appear in public
without the advantage of his presence; “for, (added she, obliquely glancing at
Miss Grimstone,) I am persuaded Sir Bevil will not
retire unhandsomely from the scene of action.”
The baronet understood the hint, and
replied in a tone of sarcastic severity, “As our sex must, madam, reverence,
not envy, the beauty of yours, there are occasions when you may safely place
more confidence in our friendship than in that of the ladies, who are seldom
well affected towards the possessor of accomplishments which nature denies to
them; yet (recollecting himself) it is too often the melancholy fate of beauty
to be no less the prey of the men than the envy of the women; where then shall
youth and inexperience find safety?”
“In the counsels of so disinterested
a friend as Sir Bevil Grimstone,” replied she with
vivacity; but, observing the countenance of Miss Grimstone
to express feelings which, as much offended as she really was at the behaviour
of that lady, she could not but pity, she endeavoured to give the conversation
another turn, by asking her if she should be at home that evening. Miss Grimstone made no reply to the question; but, after a
silence of some moments, she said, though colouring deeply at the same time,
“I do not wonder that my retiring so
early from the ball appears both to you, Miss Overbury, and my brother, as an
act not perfectly consistent with politeness; but, indeed, I felt myself much
indisposed, and was unwilling, by signifying my intention, to interrupt the
amusement I saw you engaged in.”
The baronet would by no means admit
the excuse, as in such a case he was certain Miss Overbury would have
accompanied her home, and then with a look of severity added, “Indeed, Grace, I
cannot but say the apology is positively the weakest I ever knew you to frame
on any occasion, and its being so convinces me that you are ashamed of
confessing the real motive.”
Charlotte, though not more the dupe
of so poor an excuse than Sir Bevil, yet, considering the bare endeavour of
extenuating a fault as at least some palliation of it, begged that the subject
might never more be resumed, since, whatever ill consequences might have
accrued, they had all been happily avoided; of course, the incident was not
worth their farther remembrance.
Sir Bevil’s
profound knowledge of the world had, in the opinion of his ward, reduced all
doubts respecting the quality of her masquerade-partner to an absolute
certainty. He was unquestionably one whom nobody knew, and she blushed when, on
examining her own heart, it obstinately persisted in giving a verdict in his
favour.—However pleasing he might be, should she indulge a partiality for a man
to whom she should be ashamed to give her hand? Pride and dignity of character
were absolutely against it; but, then, was it not probable she might some time
meet the same person again, and, if so, would he not endeavour to improve the
acquaintance? Heavens! how should she be mortified at being familiarly accosted
by him! In such a case, what was to be done?—She must affect a perfect forgetfulness
of having ever seen him before; yet, how would her heart accord with this?—he
was so engaging a creature. In fine, all she could do was to hope she should
never meet with him again.
These embarrassing cogitations were
however quite unnecessary, as nothing was farther from the young man’s
intentions than ever seeking to renew the transient acquaintance of the
evening. He had not so much as enquired the name of the lady who had honoured
him with her hand; not that he was indifferent to her attractions: on the
contrary, he certainly thought her the most accomplished and amiable woman he
had ever conversed with; but there were reasons which forbad him to encourage
reflections of so tender a nature. In short, though Sir Bevil had insinuated
that Charlotte had danced with a person whose name could not procure him
admittance to polite company, he well knew to the contrary; but, for this
conduct, he had two motives; one, the hope of extirpating from her breast
certain remembrances which he feared might have gotten possession there; the
other, by thus alarming her delicacy, he depended on inspiring her with a timid
dread of every man’s address but such as he himself should introduce to her.
The project, in the latter instance, had in great measure taken effect; though,
with respect to the former, his success was not altogether so certain. However,
to return. Miss Overbury’s partner happened to be one
who both by birth and education was a gentleman, though as to pecuniary matters
infinitely inferior to herself. Conscious of the mediocrity of his
circumstances, he was, with all the accomplishments which ever adorned his sex,
the most modest and unassuming of it. With merit sufficient to have demanded
the first fortune in the kingdom, he had never dropped an expression of the
tender kind to any lady whatever, before the person of our heroine excited such
sensations in his bosom as it was perhaps impossible for him wholly to conceal;
yet upon calm reflection he condemned himself even for those innocent sallies
of sensibility, although they scarcely amounted to any thing more than the
usual homage paid to the sex at large by every man of common politeness. The
lady, who had been the object of his attentions, was probably a person of
fortune; would she then condescend to honour him with her regard, or would it
not be a meanness in him to solicit it? On the other hand, if she were not
affluent, how could he ungenerously endeavour to obtain the affections of an
amiable woman, when the only portion he could settle on her must be indigence?
As for the fashionable mode of possessing a female heart, without the formality
of marriage, his notions were too unpolished to admit the thought. These
considerations sufficiently pointed out the impropriety of indulging a secret
penchant for his fair partner. Perceiving she had abruptly retired, without
making any enquiries for her, he soon after quitted the company, resolving, if
possible, to forget the masquerade and all its attendant circumstances.
C H A P. V.
Fracas between rustic Hauteur and
town-bred
Insolence.
THE two ladies having
amicably adjusted their preceding differences, Miss Grimstone
one morning took her fair companion on one of those tours which are so much the
delight of persons, who, having no station of importance to fill themselves,
find pleasure in interrupting those who have;—in other words, called shopping. As they were exhausting the
patience of an eminent tradesman in —— street, by tumbling over half the goods
in his shop, with the generous purpose of purchasing none, they perceived a mob
gathering near the door, in the midst of which stood an elderly gentleman,
dressed in a suit of blue and gold, a kind of bashaw
wig, and in his hand a strong oaken cudgel, which he brandished on all sides,
vociferously exclaiming, “Disperse, I tell you, ye rogues, or I will order you
all to the house of correction.—What! don’t you know me, you dogs, ant I
justice of the quorum?”
The ladies, intimidated by the apprehension of
disagreeable consequences, immediately retreated to their carriage. On their
return home, they gave a ludicrous account of the scene to Sir Bevil, who
replied, “By the description you give, I am positive it could be none other
than the worshipful Justice Butterfield, whose ignorance and rusticity have doubtless
drawn on him the insults of the populace. I cannot imagine what should have
drawn him from his Gothic dormitory. However, if he is really in town, we may
expect the pleasure of his company I presume.”
He had scarcely done speaking, when
a violent rapping was heard at the door, which was no sooner opened, than a
voice of the Stentorian cast exclaimed, “What! have ye got Charlotte Overbury
among ye?—Eh,—her is here, is’nt her?”
Poor Charlotte, on hearing her name
pronounced in so uncivil a manner, was ready to faint with apprehension, but
the baronet assured her of his protection as he rose to receive his visitor,
who indeed proved to be the identical Mr. Butterfield.
“How do, Sir Bevil (making a sort of
school-boy scrape as he entered.) How do, Miss Grace.—Ho! there is the little
rogue, (pulling Miss Overbury roughly by the arm.) Gad, how her’s grown! her
was but a little thing when I zeed her last, but
her’s a pretty one, I can tell ye that.”
“Pray be seated, Mr. Butterfield,
(said Sir Bevil.) This is an unexpected favour: when did you arrive in town,
Sir?”
“Only last night. We heard zomething of this young maiden’s being with you, and zoo,
as I had a little business here as a body may zay,
nothing would do but my wife must come to Lunnon too.”
“Mrs. Butterfield is then in town?”
“O aye, you may be zure of that, if I am here, her’s so main fond of her
husband.”
“An excellent pattern, Sir, for our
town wives;—but we shall have the pleasure of seeing your good lady I hope?”
“Aye, aye; you must come and see
she,—you, Miss Grace, and my little ward there; and you and I, Sir Bevil, must
crack a bottle or two together before I go back; but now we are upon the
matter, as a body may zay, I suppose young Overbury
is only on a holiday-visit or zoo.”
“Miss Overbury has entirely quitted
school, Sir. I should have apprised you of it, but judging of your feelings by
my own, I concluded you could have no objection to the young lady being obliged
in so trifling a matter of choice.”
“Why no, as you zay
it is her choice. My wife seems to think her had better staid at school; but I
don’t zee why her mayn’t be here if her likes it.”
Miss Grimstone
then observed, that she was afraid he had experienced something of the rudeness
of the canaille that morning; to which Mr. Butterfield returned,
“Why look ye zee, madam; I was
trudging along, only standing still now and then to look at the fine gewgaws in
the shop-windows, and calling to the man within to tell me the price of this
thing and that thing, when whip—up comes a puppy, and tweaked my wig, another
twitched me by the cuff of my coat, and a third was very near running off with
my hat. I told them that I was Justice Butterfield, of Zomersetshire;
but all one for that: on they went with their fun, till I gave one or two of
the dogs a handsome knock on the scull with my oaken towel here.—Add zooks, Sir Bevil, I thought as how you Lunnon
folks had been a very well behaved sort of people.”
“You will not, I hope, Sir, form
your estimate of us from the manners of the populace, who you know are in all
countries an ignorant uncivilized set of beings.”
After some farther chat, Mr.
Butterfield took his leave, charging Miss Overbury not to fail paying his lady
a visit. “And now, my dear madam, (said the baronet,) what think you of your
Somersetshire guardian? Could you endure the society of such a being?”
“The very idea is horrible, (she
replied.) O Sir Bevil, how much am I indebted to your goodness for providing me
so much more eligible a situation!”
This was considering the matter in
the very light he wished her to do. “It will always be my study, my sweet girl,
to render you happy. On the morrow you will give me leave to conduct you to the
Justice’s lady, who, though a different character, is as great an oddity as
himself. I expect she will exert her utmost endeavour to prevail on you to go
with her into the country.”
“I shall carefully avoid that, Sir
Bevil; though, from the specimen I have had today, I fear I shall be incapable
of coping with rustic hauteur, except you promise to encourage me.”
“Doubt it not, (with warmth.) It
is,—it must be the first wish of my heart to secure your satisfaction. My
regard for your dear father and your own merits, Miss Overbury, demand it.”
So friendly an assurance brought a
tear of gratitude into the eyes of Charlotte; she would have expressed that
sensation, but could only press the hand of her guardian; it appeared to her as
the hand of a father.
C H A P. VI.
Sagacious Schemes planned by the
wise Ones.
WHEN Mr. Butterfield
arrived at his lodgings, his lady’s first interrogatory was, whether it was
true that Charlotte Overbury was in town.
“True enough, (replied he.) I zeed her with my eyes.”
“Well, and how have you managed?”
“How should I have managed, sweetheart?
Her has an inclination for staying in Lunnon, and zoo
it must be as far as I can zee.”
“Redickerles, (cried Mrs.
Butterfield in a rage.) A very proper person truly are you to have the care of
a young woman, and resolve to let her do as she pleases. You are worse than a
brute, you are, to have no concern for your own family. Here now is this girl,
with a fortune of five and twenty-thousand pounds, to be picked up by any body,
and your poor son Arthur, for whom I always designed her, may look for a wife
where he can.—O you vile man you!”
“Why, what a deuce ails the woman?
Would you tie them together before they are out of leading strings? Arthur is
not twenty till next hay-making time, and her is not sixteen.”
“What of all that, you simpleton!—While
she stays here, who can be sure of her? but were she safe in the country with
us, the matter could be managed very easily.”
“Suppose, duckling, we send Arthur
word that he must come from college, and shew himself out of hand;—that will
do, I warrant, for there’s not a spark among them all has such a goodly
countenance; her cannot withstand him when her zees him:—and then for speech,
why he is such a main deep scholar, he will cut up forty of your finical
puppies. Don’t you remember how he used to talk of them there things? Zooks, I forget the name of them;—Met—Met—Metamorphoses, I
think he called it.”
“Metal physic,*
you mean, (with a sagacious nod.) Aye, he is perdegis
clever.”
“Clever!—Goodness heart, how he will
talk about matter and motion, and argue a man out of his seven senses, all by
dint of them there things! Oh! it is a fine thing to be a scholar. Never do you
fear; Charlotte Overbury cannot withstand such a fellow as this.”
“All this is nothing, Mr.
Butterfield.—Prepositions go a
great way, and if some gay fop should step in and run away with the girl’s
affections, ’twill be too late for poor Arthur. I know the world, and am sure
it will not do for her to be left in London.—She must and shall go with us into
the country.”
“But one cannot compel her to this;—one must proceed according to law, as my friend Martin zays.”
“Leave the matter to me; I’ll
undertake to concide
it. I thought you had known my skill and redress.”
“I know thou art a deep one, and zoo
I leave it all to thee.”
“And you shall conceive that I am
too Philip Butterfield. Arthur, I say, shall have the girl, and our Bessey at home shall marry Jack Overbury.”
“Why, that will be keeping the groat in the family, as the zaying
is. Oh!—so then we shall be able to portion off Betsey, and the family be never
the poorer?—Well said.’
“The very thing!—Though I zay it myself, there is not one of the bench that has a
wife of greater rapacity.”
There are occasions in life when it
may be a disadvantage to be too knowing. Now it unfortunately happened that Mr.
Butterfield remembered to have heard the word rapacity
used by a brother-magistrate, at the quarter-sessions, in a very different
sense than the one to which it had just been applied by his lady. The mistake
struck him in so ludicrous a light, as plainly to affect his risible muscles,
which being instantly observed by Mrs. Butterfield, she flew into a violent
rage, and, clenching her fist, applied it so forcibly to her husband’s nose,
that a copious effusion of blood ensued; exclaiming at the same time, “What do
you laugh at?—Eh, do you doubt my rapacity?”
“No truly, (returned the pacific
husband,) nor your ferocity
neither, love.”
It is said, that when the balance of
power was so warmly contested by the several potentates of Europe, the
plenipotentiaries assembled to settle the point were about to separate in
dudgeon, till the English ambassador luckily called for another bottle, which
operated so favourably, that Bellona with her
thundering engines was for that time kicked off the stage.—The Justice indeed
did not call for a bottle to determine whether it should be peace or war, but
he did that which answered the purpose as well; for, happening to use the word ferocity, Mrs. Butterfield’s brilliant
apprehension immediately understood him to have complimented her with the
expression of veracity. She
therefore felt herself so entirely gratified, that, in a few seconds, all was
well again, and she declared herself ready to forgive the offence, provided he
would promise to leave the disposal of Miss Overbury wholly to her management.
Hostilities thus happily superseded, Mr. Butterfield retired to wash away the
sanguinary stream, and his lady to adjust her head-dress, which had been
somewhat discomposed by her Amazonian heroism.
When Sir Bevil Grimstone
conducted his ward to pay her respects to Mrs. Butterfield, the latter, though
prepared to expect a young lady of singular agrémens,
discovered in her appearance so ineffable an elegance and dignity, that she sat
for some time overpowered by awe and surprise. The baronet, with his accustomed
easy politeness, introduced the topics of the day, and, after chatting some
time, Mrs. Butterfield, somewhat relieved from her embarrassment, opened the
important business, by asking the young lady how she liked London. On her
replying in terms of encomium, the other observed that she thought it of all
places the most unfit for her residence; adding, “I hope, my dear, you will incur with the friendly wishes of Mr.
Butterfield and myself, by making choice of our mansion for your abode.”
“I hope, madam, I shall always
retain a grateful sense of the generous solicitude of my friends for my
advantage; but really, at present, I find myself no ways inclined to a country
residence.”
Mr. Butterfield, who was also
present, remembering that he had bound himself to a strict neutrality, turning
to the baronet, said, “You and I, Sir Bevil, will leave the women to settle the
matter by themselves. What will you drink this morning?”
“I never drink in a morning, Sir.”
“Hey-day, what a milk-sop are you!
You would cut a very sorry figure among us in Zomersetshire,
let me tell you, if you could not toss off a good toast and ale by way of whet
before dinner. Well, you may do as you will, but I must have my thimble-full;”—saying
this, he rang a bell, and a footman, pursuant to order, brought in a two-quart
tankard, with a toast, about the dimensions of a quartern-loaf.
——The baronet feeling himself interested in the conversation of the ladies,
directed his attention wholly to that quarter, and heard Mrs. Butterfield
descanting with great volubility on the pleasures of a country-life. The
Londoners (said she) have a notion that we are dull, but it is all a notion,
and nothing else. We have sessions, assizes, races, and all manner of
amusements:—then, was you to see the company which on those occasions meet at
the Ball, you would be charmed. We have plays too, I assure you. You know,
Butterfield, what an excellent company of comedians played last summer in our
barn. I assure you I never saw a better performance.”
“Perhaps not, madam, (replied
Charlotte, scarcely able to stifle a laugh;) but, though I should like a
temporary visit to the country, I never can think of confining myself entirely
to it.”
Mrs. Butterfield, finding this mode
of arguing ineffectual, began to assume a more elevated aspect, and, addressing
Miss Overbury in a peremptory style, said, “You know, my dear, you are not yet
your own mistress, and therefore it is your duty to be guided by the discretion
of your guardians. Now both myself and Mr. Butterfield are of opinion that the
country is the most properest
place for you, and I must beg you will not think of being refectory.
“I should be extremely sorry, madam,
to be thought capable of an improper conduct on this occasion, and therefore,
as Sir Bevil kindly offered me the protection of his family, I deemed it both
my duty and interest to accept it.”
Sir Bevil, thinking the subject had
been pursued to its utmost limits of propriety, rejoined, “I am certain, my
good madam, that Miss Overbury will always pay due respect to your family; but,
since she appears averse to a country-life, I beg you will be assured of every
attention on my part as the guardian of so valuable a charge.”—He then, observing
that the hour of dinner approached, requested the honour of Mr. and Mrs.
Butterfield’s company the next day in Bedford-square, and Charlotte, willingly
embracing the hint, took her leave, with every demonstration of respect.
As soon as the visitors were
withdrawn, Mrs. Butterfield severely reproached her husband for his passiveness
on the affair.—“Why (said she) did not you second me by exerting your
authority; but you care for nothing as long as you have your tankard of ale.”
“Surely, my dear, you forget that
you commanded me to leave the business entirely to yourself?—I was not for
fishing in troubled water, d’ye zee?
“Oh! you are mighty complying when
you know it will thwart your wife. Well, well, poor Arthur may marry a wench
without a shilling for what you care, and then live as he can on the estate
which your successors have
mortgaged for more than half its value:—but I have done. We will set out
to-morrow morning for the Priory, for I will not stay here spending money,
since no good is to come of it.—Ah, poor Arthur!
The justice, perceiving a storm
gathering in the domestic horizon, wisely determined to avoid its fury by
taking shelter at a neighbouring public-house, where he dined on a beef-steak
and a pot of porter, esteeming for once so humble a repast preferable to the
entertainment of his own table, with the sauce which was likely to be served on
the occasion.—
Consoling himself with a pipe, (that
cordial-opiate for domestic care,) the evening was pretty far advanced before
he returned to his lodgings, and when he did so, he found the whole family in
commotion, preparing for the journey of to-morrow;—for Mrs. Butterfield had no
ways relaxed of the resolution her resentment had prompted. ——Early in the
morning the Butterfields sat out for their habitation
in the West, and thus ended the journey to London, as successfully as many a
scheme planned by wiser heads have done before. But thus it will be, while, in
the prodigious extent of our ideas, we are for stuffing the future into the
shallow budget of the present,—or, in other words, as long as mankind will be
content to button themselves in a strait waistcoat, in order that the coat may
be cut of larger dimensions.
C H A P. VII.
Contains what the Reader probably
knows
before.
THE sudden retreat of
the Butterfields was a circumstance no ways
displeasing either to Charlotte or the baronet, the latter of whom carefully
maintained such a line of conduct as he judged most effectual to secure him her
confidence and esteem.—The character of her other guardian was a sufficient
ground of congratulation, on the good fortune of having the rusticity of the
one counterbalanced by the generosity and politeness of the other. Her
situation was therefore entirely to her satisfaction, except we consider the unamiable temper of Miss Grimstone,
which now, irritated by perpetual mortifications of her vanity, often appeared
intolerably petulant. Charlotte, however, was of too lively a disposition to be
seriously affected with trifles, especially as she could not but perceive Sir Bevil’s attention to augment in proportion as his sister
was deficient therein. He was, indeed, too politic not to make the utmost
advantage of this circumstance, and, lest the good nature of the one should
overlook the incivility of the other, he took care, on every proper occasion,
secretly to lament the inconveniencies of his domestic situation during the
many years he had endured the petulance of his sister’s humour. By such
methods, he ingratiated himself into a kind of confidential familiarity with
his ward, and actually inspired her with that sort of sympathy which he judged
a favourable prelude to the sentiment he was most anxious to excite.
Charlotte had really a most perfect
esteem for him, as she firmly believed his intrinsic merit to be equal to the
elegance of his manners and the polished complaisance of his conversation. The
sphere of life in which he had ever moved, united to a penetrating
understanding, rendered him, in her opinion, so competent a judge of propriety,
that she constantly paid the utmost deference to his judgment, and he was
encouraged to believe himself so thoroughly acquainted with her heart, as that
she would never engage in any important connection without previously
consulting him. But casuists in human nature affirm, that a man might explore
the whole terraqueous globe with more ease than he
can develope the profound turnings and windings of a female heart.—So to his
cost was poor Columbus convinced, when the same illustrious dame, whose
munificence had enabled him to investigate the extremities of the ocean, could
suffer him at his return to be ignominiously loaded with irons.
It would be paying the Reader but an
ill compliment even to suspect that he has not already discovered Sir Bevil’s designs to be levelled directly at the hand and
fortune of Charlotte; but as, in spite of all his vanity, he could not but
entertain some doubts of her cordially coinciding with his wishes, he was
willing to wait the result of long and patient assiduity, rather than, by too
precipitately discovering his sentiments, risk the destruction of the whole
plan. He believed her affections at present totally disengaged, and as long as
he should have address to continue them so, he could not doubt but that he was
every hour gaining his ground, and at last should succeed to the highest bounds
of his selfish hopes, particularly as he perceived her inclined to treat the
regards of the other sex more as a matter of diversion than any real concern.
It might naturally be expected that a young lady of Charlotte’s beauty,
accomplishments, and fortune, would be attended with a train of admirers. She
in fact was so; for, though the baronet by no means was fond of promoting her
appearance in public, the fame of such a person could not fail of attracting to
his house the young and gay, as well as the needy aspirer to beauty and
affluence, and, as Miss Grimstone saw a great deal of
company, their access could not be well avoided; yet the soft things
perpetually whispered in the ears of our heroine seemed no otherwise to affect
her than as a theme for exerting the lively sallies of her natural vivacity. If
a tender compliment had given occasion to a smart repartee, it had had with her
all the value she thought it deserving of.—Sir Bevil would often affect to
rally her on this insensibility, telling her, in good humour, he doubted she
would prove a very coquet; to which she replied,
“Indeed I should despise myself,
were I capable of trifling with the real feelings of an honest heart; but, as I
suppose the flattering speeches alluded to are meant no less to gratify the
speaker’s vanity than mine, I may be allowed the liberty of treating them as
they deserve,—that is, to laugh at them.”
“I see, my dear Charlotte, your good
sense anticipates all which my warm friendship would say on the occasion; yet,
whenever I shall find among your train of admirers one whom I shall think
deserving my amiable ward, I shall be the first to condemn this insensibility.”
“Then I sincerely hope, Sir Bevil,
it will never be your chance to think so; for I really set so high a value on
my liberty, that I cannot but dread your persuading me to give it up.”
This reply contained an insinuation
so very flattering, that the baronet was assured the entire ascendancy of her affections
belonged wholly to himself. Never could man be more enraptured than he was at
the idea: his eyes sparkled with pleasure, and more than once was he prompted
to express the whole of his sentiments; but he was too much the man of the
world to suffer his heart to hang upon his lips, neither was his passion of
that lively kind which is not to be restrained by the suggestions of policy or
prudence. Sir Bevil, as has been observed, had long since passed the ardour of
youth; besides, the passion of avarice, which was now his predominant one,
allows not a deep impression of the tender kind.
Among the few who possessed the
entire esteem of Miss Overbury was a Mrs. Danby, the widow of an officer who
had formerly lived on terms of the strictest intimacy with Mr. Overbury, and,
indeed, had experienced the benevolence of his temper at a period when every
hope of relief from impending ruin was obscured. This lady, being one of those
singular characters who retain a warm sense of past favours received, had ever borne
a tender regard to his family, and was no sooner apprised of his daughter’s
being in town, than she hastened to pay that respect she thought so justly her
due.—Mrs. Danby’s income was by no means large; yet, having always moved in
genteel life, and her reputation as a person of singular merit being generally
allowed, she had many cordial friends in that sphere, whose kind attentions
rendered her situation tolerably comfortable. At her house, Charlotte passed
many agreeable hours, for she was a woman in whom a brilliant understanding had
received the highest improvement which a polished education could bestow. She
was moreover of an amiable temper, and naturally so cheerful, that her company
was in an uncommon degree entertaining; it is therefore no wonder, that,
notwithstanding a disparity of years, our heroine should discover an
extraordinary fondness for her society; nor could she form any probable
conjecture as to the reasons which often led her guardian to suggest something
of disapprobation in her choice of a companion. The truth is, Mrs. Danby had a
son;—but that son being then at Cambridge was a circumstance which rather
alleviated his anxieties; nor had he as yet devised any expedient for breaking
off so hazardous a connection.—Visibly to put a restraint on the young lady’s
visits would be destroying his own interest, particularly as, besides her own
personal merit, Mrs. Danby came recommended to her esteem by the friendship of
her deceased father. We must however do him the justice to suppose his prolific
brain was not unemployed in contriving some decent method of interrupting this
inauspicious intimacy, in which he hoped some lucky contingence might concur
with his own diligent endeavours. But, before any thing of this kind could be
effected, Chance, who is never better pleased than when outwitting human
contrivance, had decreed what will be shewn in the next chapter.
C H A P. VIII.
The unexpected Rencontre.
MISS Overbury having
received a card of invitation from Mrs. Danby, found that lady, on arriving in
Great Ormond-street, quite alone. After a social tête-à-tête over their tea, they agreed to sit down to a
game of picquet. Soon after a young gentleman
suddenly entered the room, at whose appearance Charlotte instantly changed
colour, the cards dropped from her hand, and a universal trembling succeeded.
Mrs. Danby also expressed some surprise, and exclaimed, as she rose from the
table, “My dear George, I was far from expecting this happiness. What brought
you from Cambridge at this time?” Whether the enquiry was distinctly heard we
will not undertake to say;—it is certain it was not answered: the young
gentleman’s attention was directed to another quarter. Recollecting himself
however, he respectfully addressed his mother, and then profoundly bowed to
Miss Overbury.—“My dear, (resumed Mrs. Danby,) give me leave to introduce to
you my son.—George, this lady is the daughter of your father’s benefactor, Mr.
Overbury.” After some hesitation he was able to articulate that he was happy to
see her, and hoped she had found no inconvenience from the masquerade.
“You are old acquaintance then I
find.”
Charlotte blushed, and Mr. Danby, a
little confused, acknowledged that he had had the honour of seeing Miss
Overbury before.—We presume it would be superfluous here to remark that the
young couple recognized in each other the milk-maid and the blue domino. After
a surprise natural to the occasion had subsided, a general frankness and
good-humour took place. Mr. Danby leaned on the back of Charlotte’s chair as
she played,—not indeed much to her advantage, for his proximity seemed to be
particularly inauspicious. The cards were all her own, yet, by a strange
fatality, the game was absolutely lost:—possibly she was congratulating herself
on the fortunate circumstance of not having danced at the masquerade with a
person whom nobody knew. Sir Bevil could no longer terrify her with the
frightful insinuation; the world could report no such mortifying an incident
concerning her.
Mrs. Danby, being here called out of
the room, desired her son would take her cards.—“Most willingly, madam.”
Charlotte was never less disposed for play, but to refuse it now would have
been improper.—The deal was forgotten.
“It belongs to me, Sir.”
“Pardon me, madam, it is mine.”
“We will cut for it.”
She did so, and turned up the queen
of hearts.
“I acknowledge you the sovereignty,
madam,” with a gentle sigh.
“It is a doubtful title, Sir.”
“Here is a subject (laying his hand
on his heart) wishes to avow allegiance.”
Charlotte blushed.—Mr. Danby was
silent. He feared he had expressed more than he ought to have done. His mother
returned, and he resigned to her his seat, retiring once more behind Miss Overbury’s chair, where, in spite of every effort to
repress, a sigh now and then escaped him, vibrating as it passed on the gentle
ear of her whose presence had excited them. Charlotte now looked at her watch,
and found she had already transgressed the rules of etiquette in the length of
her visit. She arose to take her leave. Mrs. Danby entreated the happiness of
her company at supper.—George’s looks more than seconded the request.
“Don’t go,” said Inclination.
“Do go,” said Prudence.
“I will go,” said Resolution.
The chair was ordered and Mr. Danby
respectfully conducted her to it. As he did so, an involuntary pressure of the
hand convinced her he was actuated by something more than politeness. “Adieu,
madam,” said he, as she hurried to her chair; and, if we mistake not, the
plaintive accent in which it was uttered resounded on the ear of Charlotte some
hours afterwards.
On his return to the drawing-room,
he found his mother walking across the room apparently in a very thoughtful
mood. She had not indeed seen much to draw a serious conclusion from, but she
had discovered something which awakened suspicions rather of the unpleasing
kind.
“Miss Overbury is a very amiable
young lady, George; do not you think so?”
“Most certainly, madam, I do.”
Whether that reply was uttered with
unusual warmth or not we shall not determine; but Mrs. Danby, turning towards
him with a solemn air, fixed her eyes most expressively on his face.—“Do you
know who she is, George? (resumed she.) Miss Overbury is the daughter of that
excellent man who saved your father from misery,—from a jail.”
We suppose there must have been
something more in this speech than a bare reiteration of a fact he was already
informed of, as the young gentleman, without making any reply, immediately cast
his eyes on the floor, in a sort of modest confusion, which Mrs. Danby
observing, she put her handkerchief to her eyes.—“Sit down by me, my good
George,” resumed she. He implicitly obeyed, and for some moments both kept
profound silence.
“It has been my peculiar happiness
(continued Mrs. Danby) to possess a son, who, to the obligations of filial
reverence, has added the ties of love. Hence that sweet confidence has ever
subsisted between us which does not always accompany the relation we stand in
to each other. I will, therefore, address you with the frankness of a friend
rather than the authority of a mother, and doubt not but your amiable and
ingenuous temper will readily accept of that mode.—Excuse me, George, if the
watchful solicitude of a parent causes me to appear ridiculously
suspicions;—but indeed,—indeed I think you see Miss Overbury with no
indifferent feelings.”
Mr. Danby hesitated for a reply.
“You do not answer me, my son. Does
my officious earnestness offend you?”
“Offend me!—Oh! do not, my beloved
mother, adopt that expression. I will be as explicit as your tenderness has an
undoubted right to expect. If I was silent, perhaps a painful consciousness was
the cause. O madam, you have seen what I scarcely dared to avow myself;—Miss
Overbury has indeed——”
“Then I am truly wretched.”
“Why, my dear madam?”
“Because you must unavoidably be
either ungrateful or unhappy.”
“I comprehend all which my mother
would urge on the occasion. But, madam, your son will not disgrace his father’s
principles: he will not repay the generosity of Mr. Overbury by endeavouring to
make a beggar of his daughter.”
Here Mrs. Danby burst into a flood
of tears, and, folding her arms tenderly around him, exclaimed, “My noble
George, there spoke your father’s spirit; but, while I applaud so heroic a
sentiment, I cannot forget the feelings of a mother. O my son, can I bear to
see you miserable!”
“No, madam.—I will not be so. A
generous mind cannot be miserable while conscious of pursuing the laws of
rectitude. The tenderness I confess to feel for Miss Overbury is yet an infant-passion;
time and resolution I trust will overcome it. Rest satisfied, my honoured
mother, that, as it has hitherto been my study to imitate your virtues and my
father’s honour, so it shall still be, nor will I indulge a sentiment which
either might condemn.”
The scene here became too tender for
Mrs. Danby’s feelings to support. She retired to her closet to vent the
effusions of an overflowing heart in tears.
C H A P. IX.
Romantic Enthusiasm.
WHATEVER Charlotte’s
cogitations might have been after her return from Ormond-street, it is certain
that the next morning she was observed to spend a much longer time than usual
at her toilette. Though in the article of dress ever accustomed to observe an
elegant exactness, yet, on the present occasion, she was singularly attentive
to that point. Her reflections were now of a very different nature from those
which had immediately succeeded the masquerade; much then as she dreaded
recognition, she had now no intention of being denied, should the blue domino
endeavour to improve the acquaintance.
Miss Grimstone,
observing her when in the parlour to run often to the window, and to appear
particularly attentive whenever a rap was heard at the door, could not help
asking her if she expected any visitor. A little abashed at the question,
Charlotte hesitatingly replied, “Me, madam,—no, indeed.”
“I thought you had by your going so
often to the window.”
“I was only looking at——”
At that instant a servant delivered
a letter inscribed to Miss Overbury, who, eagerly snatching it with a trembling
hand, felt not a little disappointed when she saw a country post-mark on the
outside. By this circumstance her impatience received a complete check. She
opened it with a careless air, and found it an epistle from Miss Butterfield,
the contents of which were as follow.
“If it be true, my dear Charlotte,
that souls are often congenial, then surely yours and mine are of this nature.
They must be of a kindred order; for, though I have never been so happy as to
see you, I feel myself attached to your dear self by the warmest ties of
friendship. My mother, indeed, is eager in your praise, but there needs not her
description to familiarize me to your idea. I have already pictured in my mind
your charming person, and that so exactly, that I am confident among a hundred
I should recognize my Charlotte Overbury. Your mind,—I know its minutest sentiment, and all I wish for is the supreme
satisfaction of your amiable conversation. And why cannot I possess this
inestimable bliss, or how is it possible you can be enamoured of the scenes
around you? The dense atmosphere of a crowded city is not only unfriendly to
the functions of animal life, but also to the sublime aspirations of the soul:
the uncontaminated air of verdant hills and flowery vales is that in which she
becomes truly exhilirated. Here springs that genuine
hilarity of heart, which, like the sun, gilds every object in nature, and here
expand those delicious meditations in which the sentimental mind finds a
luxurious banquet;—but the sweet emotion dwells not amidst the polluted breath
of thronged assemblies; it evaporates in noise, and is annihilated by the buz of impertinence and folly. Come then, my sister,—my
friend, and share the ineffable pleasures enjoyed by your Eliza in the calm
shades of Ashton; come, listen to the music of the purling rills or sweet
cascades, dashing from rock to rock. We will roam together over the enamelled
meadows, following the snowy lambkins, or in the embowering shade exchange the
delights of sentimental converse. Here, my lovely maid, your beauty will bloom
fresher than the opening rose-bud; you will no longer hear the odious flattery
of those, who, in the praises they bestow on you, pursue their own applause,
but you will receive the homage of uncorrupted hearts, and be accosted only in
the pure strains of artless love.
“What shall I say more to prevail on
my charming friend to quit the noisy scenes of the metropolis? Much I suspect
the efficacy of my humble pen in painting the unadulterated joys of a country
life. Come, then, and detect the vanity of my attempt. This is now the season
when the rosy-footed spring strews the meadows with a thousand sweets, when the
fragrant hawthorn scents the fanning gale, and the charming nightingale gives
pleasure to the soft hour of eve. Can you be insensible to these accumulated
beauties?—No; you are formed with the most refined sensibilities. Come, then,
my beloved Charlotte, and bless with your presence this venerable mansion;
come, bestow a new untasted joy on your own
Ashton-Priory, April
20.
ELIZA BUTTERFIELD.”
Charlotte could not help smiling as
she ran over this curious epistle. The invitation it contained had something in
it frank and good natured though the romantic taste of the writer was not at
all suited to her disposition. “I little expected (said she to herself) to find
any of the Butterfield’s of so sentimental a cast. A medium, between the
romantic softness of this girl and the shocking rusticity of her parents, would
form a tolerable character.” She put the letter however into her pocket-book,
intending to answer it at some convenient period.
Scarcely had she done so, when the
baron Vanhawsen was announced. As this was no more
than the second visit that nobleman had made at the baronet’s, and Charlotte
having been from home at the time of the former one, she had not seen him
before, though she was no stranger to his title, which being recognized by many
of the nobility; he was well received in every polite circle, in one of which
some acquaintance having commenced between him and Sir Bevil, he did the family
the honour of calling on them in a style of familiarity highly pleasing to Miss
Grimstone. The baron was of an ancient house in
Germany, and, by some lucky demises, heir to the fortunes of his whole family.
He was therefore extremely rich, and had come to England on much the same
purpose to which many of our countrymen visit the continent;—that is, to waste
money and glean folly; for we do not think our dear island deficient in the
latter commodity any more than some other parts of the world. His age was about
thirty, his form much inclining to the gigantic,—features rather calculated to
terrify than please,—voice harsh and unpleasing,—and manners as inelegant as
his person. This accomplished nobleman, struck with the figure of Miss
Overbury, did her the honour of staring for some minutes most earnestly in her
face, and, when she arose to retire, (which she did in about ten minutes after
his arrival,) he seemed as though about to lay hold of her gown in order to
detain her.
Such a sentiment, however coarsely
expressed, could not be very agreeable to Miss Grimstone;
for, though we believe the baron beheld that lady with as chaste a veneration
as he did the marble image of his patroness St. Ursula, yet so it was, that she
fancied the visit wholly designed to herself, and translated some unpolished
compliments into the language of actual attachment to her person. The idea of
becoming the Baroness Vanhawsen was not to be
relinquished without reluctance; and, however slight the grounds of jealousy
might be, even an ideal interruption of so charming a hope was not to be
patiently borne.
Some days after the above incident,
the breakfast things being removed and the servants withdrawn, Sir Bevil, gaily
addressing his sister, asked whether she should like a trip to
Germany.—“Nothing in the world (answered she, bridling) could delight me so
much.”
“I dare say then you will chearfully shew your respect by accompanying thither Madam
the Baroness Vanhawsen.”
Miss Grimstone
turned pale. Charlotte, with a look of curiosity, demanded if the baron were
about to be married.—“You best will determine that question, madam.”
“What do you mean, Sir Bevil?”
“I will tell you, my dear Charlotte
and at the same time may, I hope, congratulate you on so important a conquest.
The baron is your avowed admirer. I yesterday received a card, requesting my
attendance at his house. After a polite reception and apologies for the step he
had taken, since he said it was rather his place to have waited on me, he
frankly acquainted me with his penchant for my lovely ward, to which he
flattered himself I could have no objection, as his family was not unknown to
several Englishmen of the first distinction, and, for his fortune, he should
give me the most indubitable proofs of its being extremely ample, the whole of
which he would settle on yourself in any manner you approved.—You may suppose,
my dear, (continued Sir Bevil,) that I could make no objection to so liberal a
proposal.”
Miss Grimstone,
not choosing longer to witness a discourse so far from being to her taste,
thought proper to retire, and the baronet, perfectly to his satisfaction, read
in the countenance of Charlotte an entire disapprobation of the overture. He
was therefore emboldened to proceed with more warmth than probably he might
otherwise have done. Without stopping to hear the objection she was about to
express, he proceeded as follows.
“I have your interest so much at
heart, my dear Charlotte, that I cannot but rejoice in the prospect of an
alliance so entirely to your advantage, and I am persuaded that you will
overlook the trifling consideration of personal attractions in the opportunity
you now have of acquiring rank and splendor.”
But, in reality, the sagacious
baronet was assured she was the last person in the world to do this. He well
knew her soul was insensible to the sordid considerations of avarice;—that,
young, gay, and susceptible of the finest feelings, he could not suppose a
person of Baron Vanhawsen’s description in the least
likely to acquire her favour, nor was her temper of that kind to be dazzled by
the splendor of rank. From these convictions, he was
induced to hazard the above insinuation, to which he received exactly the
answer he had expected.
“My good Sir Bevil, (said she,) can
you possibly shew me one reason in nature why a girl, blest as I am with a
fortune sufficient to all the purposes of life, should give her hand to a man
she dislikes, merely to have more wealth than she can have occasion for?
Titles, I assure you, are in my estimation very empty things; and, since I can
discover nothing attractive, either in the baron’s person or manners, I beg you
will be so good as to make my reply, by acquainting him that I can never accept
the honour he proposes.”
“My dear child, (returned he, more
pleased than he chose to discover,) do not suppose me of so sordid a principle
as really to be a zealous advocate in behalf of this suit, although, as your
guardian, it might be my duty to urge those advantages which the world would
condemn me for overlooking; yet, I confess, I would not wish to see my
Charlotte Baroness Vanhawsen.”
“Ah! Sir Bevil, was this kind? Where
shall I now look for sincerity, for paternal frankness, since I must no longer
expect it from you?”
Her emotion affected him, for the
tears glistened in her eyes, and for once, we presume, Policy might be said to
have outwitted itself. Had he not been morally assured the baron’s suit would
be absolutely rejected, it is probable he had never stood forth as an advocate
for it. As it was, he believed it might do so without hazarding the least
detriment to his own affairs, and at the same time inspire her with a higher
opinion of his candour and disinterestedness.—Her distress convinced him he had
gone too far, and had certainly over-acted his part. It was a point of the
greatest moment to him that the cause of such reflection should be speedily
removed.
He proceeded now to explain himself
on the motives of his conduct, in doing which something would probably have
escaped him which it was not yet the proper period for introducing, had not a
footman announced the arrival of Mrs. Danby. The baronet’s countenance fell at
the name,—the very sound of which had something in it he did not like; and,
bowing slightly to the lady as she entered, he immediately withdrew.
More disappointments than one.
NOTHING could be more
agreeable to Charlotte than the presence of Mrs. Danby. She had not seen her
since the rencontre mentioned in a preceding chapter,—not but that she much
wished it, but, supposing George Danby to be still at her house, delicacy,
arising from the consciousness of certain ideas, rendered her visiting there
highly improper. Mrs. Danby, having in the interim called in Bedford-square,
and not finding Miss Overbury at home, had left a card, (agreeably to the
familiar nature of their acquaintance,) requesting too see her at her house the
next day, to which the other returned a polite excuse. This incident, and other
correspondent proofs of the shyness of her young friend, induced that lady to
suppose that what she had discovered of her son’s attachment was also suspected
by Charlotte, who, in consequence, feeling her pride hurt, had thought proper
to refrain her visits: This was just as she wished it to be: however, not
willing to lose entirely the society of one for whom she had a most unfeigned
affection, she determined to make one more effort to regain so valuable an
acquaintance.
“I am come, (said she,) my dear Miss
Overbury, to upbraid your unkindness.—Why am I so unfortunate as not to have
seen you of so long a time?”
Charlotte in excuse pleaded company
and engagements, assuring her however, and with the strictest truth, that she
should at all times find the sincerest satisfaction in her company.
“If you would have me believe this,
(resumed Mrs. Danby,) you must consent to give me more of your company than you
have done of late. Besides, it will now be charity, as I am quite alone.”
“Is Mr. Danby then returned to Cambridge,
madam?” anxiously.
“He is gone to France, my dear, from
whence I do not yet expect his return.”
“To France!—(in a tone of surprise;)
Really?”
The intelligence was not
pleasing:—that he should engage in so long an absence, without bidding her so
much as an adieu, had something in it rather ungenteel.
Yet, what right had she to expect that ceremony?—she was nothing to Mr.
Danby,—he ought to be nothing to her. While this reflection was making
unwelcome entrance into her mind, Mrs. Danby resumed:
“You may remember, Miss Overbury,
that his presence, when last you did me the honour of a visit, was wholly
unexpected; but it was to communicate an advantageous proposal which had been
made to him.”
Charlotte, affecting an air of
indifference, turned the conversation to another subject; but, no sooner had
Mrs. Danby taken leave, after chatting with her a considerable time, than she
fell into a very serious meditation. I have then deceived myself (thought she)
in supposing George Danby’s behaviour to have been any thing more than the
effect of civility; true, I have heard as many tender things a hundred times
over from all the young gentlemen of my acquaintance,—but from his mouth it had
a weight, which, I perceive, I was extremely weak in allowing it;—it was all
mere bagatelle. But, perhaps, there is in the matter something worse than this.
How did I behave that evening? May not my surprise have discovered too much?
Perhaps he read my partiality to himself, and despised it. If so, then,
Charlotte, be thyself. He was so condescending as to give a poor love-sick girl
some soft insinuations to encourage her. Yes, yes, this was the case. Oh! I
shall expire at the mortifying thought: yet (rising from her seat with an
animated air) the daughter of William Overbury, though open to the impressions
of genuine merit, can yet despise the heart which holds her cheap.——
The advantage which Mrs. Danby had
intimated was simply an invitation, from a young nobleman at the university, to
Mr. Danby, of accompanying him and his tutor on the tour of Europe. The young
gentleman, having nearly completed his studies, had come to town, in order to
consult his mother, for whose opinion he had the profoundest respect. It was an
opportunity she warmly desired, though she had despaired of obtaining it. Her
little abilities had been exerted to the utmost in supporting her son at
college; the expences of a travelling plan were
absolutely beyond the limits of her purse, yet she wished her beloved George to
acquire the accomplishments of a gentleman, not in order to adorn a fortune,
for he was born to none, but, if possible, to acquire one. The proposal being
cordially accepted, he had taken his leave of her on the evening of the next
day, and, after the conversation related between him and his mother, the reader
will, we believe, consider his departure from England in a different light from
that in which it appeared to Miss Overbury.
That young lady’s pride being
effectually piqued by the incident, the idea of George Danby never occurred to
her but it was dismissed with the resolution of thinking of him no more.
Whatever might have been her former remembrances, she was now persuaded of his
being an object of total indifference to her; yet, in spite of this opinion and
her natural vivacity, she was much more addicted to the pensoroso
style than before. She often visited Mrs. Danby, but, as both ladies had
different reasons for avoiding the mention of his name, neither had an
opportunity of discovering the other’s sentiments.
About this time there was a certain
young viscount, who, in a very particular manner, paid his court to our
heroine. Sir Bevil was not ignorant of the circumstance, but he had at the same
time the pleasure of knowing she discovered no greater sensibility of his attachment
than she had before done that of the baron. It was nothing, indeed, very
surprising, to one who knew her disposition, that she should reject a Baron Vanhawsen; but absolutely to refuse a young nobleman, whose
personal and mental accomplishments were far superior to the common standard,
was an incident which must have excessively puzzled the baronet, had not his
own vanity helped him to a clue for unravelling it.—The improbability of a girl
of sixteen falling in love with an old beau of threescore was a circumstance he
had entirely forgotten; and, as Charlotte (though the sentiment was purely
filial) had constantly manifested a behaviour full of affection and gratitude
towards him, he actually believed himself the subject of some tender sighs
which now and then escaped her, for nothing is more common than to frame our
ideas of things correspondent to the nature of our hopes.
“What can be the cause, my dear
Charlotte, (said he one day,) that a heart so eminently susceptible should yet
remain unmoved by all the soft solicitations it receives? The baron’s rejection
cannot surprise me, but Lord P— has surely too many agrémens to be wholly disregarded.
What can be the meaning of all this coldness, my sweet girl?”
“Surely (replied she laughing)
affairs are not yet so desperate, Sir Bevil? Sixteen, I hope, is not the age of
despair.”
“No; but it perhaps is the age when
the heart is most susceptible of impression, and therefore I cannot think your’s, my Charlotte, absolutely insensible to every tender
emotion. What means, may I ask, (looking tenderly at her,) what means that
pensiveness which so often steals across that lovely brow?”
At that question Charlotte was
covered with blushes, and hesitatingly replied, “Pensive, Sir Bevil?—Surely you
have not seen—?—Indeed, I hope my behaviour has discovered no improper——”
She would have said gravity; but, translating her meaning as
most agreeable to the visionary hopes he had indulged, he seized her hand, and
exclaimed with rapture,
“Improper, my adorable girl!—No. It
transports me even to ecstacy. O Miss Overbury, you
have made me the happiest of men by this sweet hope, that my tenderest wishes
will receive their blest accomplishment. I will say,—it is all I can say,—that
the happy object of those soft sensations, though certainly unworthy, will at
least repay them by a life of the sincerest love,—the warmest gratitude.”
“Heavens! (cried she, in a kind of
joyful confusion,) is it possible! Has he then discovered himself?—has George
Danby declared his sentiments?”
“George Danby, madam! (starting
back.) O Miss Overbury, it is not for him I would solicit. The man, who
presumes to hope for your favour,—who loves you with the extremest
ardour,—whose life shall be devoted to your happiness, is now before you. I offer
you, most amiable of women, a heart devoted to your charms,—a heart which not
the combined attractions of your whole sex could have power to impress, till
your incomparable perfections have entirely subdued it.”
“Sir Bevil Grimstone! (cried
the astonished Charlotte,)—my guardian, whom I have honoured as a father!—Can
it be possible he should address me in a strain like this?”
“And why not, my Charlotte? The
difference of our years is adapted rather to warrant the stability of love than
to be a barrier to its access. Passion, madam, in a younger man, may be more
ardently expressed, but its refinements can only exist in minds matured by
reflection; consequently an expectation of permanent felicity is, on such a
basis, the most rationally founded.”
“Mention the hated subject no more,
I entreat, Sir Bevil,” with an air of resentment.
“Your affections are engaged then,
Miss Overbury, and by whom?—a young fellow not worth a shilling. Consider, I
beseech you, of the imprudence of such a measure; for, however speciously he
may have varnished his tale, I know the Danbys, and I
know them to be indigent.”
“Possibly;—I believe indeed they are
so; but I must do him the justice to acquit him of the baseness you have
insinuated. George Danby has never entertained me a moment on the subject you
suspect.”
“Ah! Charlotte, do not tarnish that
admirable frankness for which I have ever adored you;—how happened it then that
his name dropped so promptly from your lips?”
“It proceeded merely from my foolish
inadvertence. I will be frank, Sir Bevil, and acknowledge that I have regarded
Mr. Danby with partial eyes; yet, on my honour, he is still a stranger to that
sentiment, and ever must remain so.”
“There, indeed, you are my sweet
ingenuous girl; but, give me leave to ask, are you aware, my Charlotte, of the
imprudence,—nay, the destructive tendency of the sentiments you so generously
confess?”
“I am aware, Sir Bevil, (melting
into tears;) I have seen the folly of it,—I lament it;—what shall I say?”
“Nothing, my angel. Your charming frankness already
atones for the error which cannot in the least diminish the fervor
of my affection; banish, therefore, so chimerical an idea, and consent to
receive the vows of a man whose attachment to you, though ardent, is rather the
result of reason than passion.”
“No more, Sir Bevil. I cannot allow this language from
you. I have honoured,—nay, loved you as a father, and it has been my pride to
manifest that sentiment; but you have now laid an unhappy restraint on those
feelings. I would be grateful, yet the pleasing demonstration of that principle
must henceforeth be denied me. You have distressed me
more than I can express, since, by the avowal of a passion so unworthy
yourself, you restrain me from evincing the proper sense I ought to have of
your goodness. Indeed, indeed, you have rendered me most unhappy.”
“Then, madam, I am most
miserable;—yet, to possess that endearing confidence with which you have
hitherto favoured me, whatever the sacrifice may cost me, I am ready to promise
all you require.”
“I insist then that you never more
indulge a thought of this unbecoming nature.”
“A thought, my Charlotte?—not one
sweet reflection on the happiness I had so deliciously painted?—But you shall
be obeyed, madam. I would sooner die than occasion you one moment’s uneasiness.
Say that you forgive me,—nay, that you pity me. O Charlotte, shall I not be
entitled to your pity at least?”
An affectation of feelings so unsuitable to his years
almost impelled a smile on her countenance, at the same time it forced her to
consider him in a very ridiculous and contemptible light. “Rely (said she
firmly) on my feeling every sentiment due to the character of Sir Bevil Grimstone, as long as he chuses
properly to support it.”
Somewhat abashed at the severity of
her manner, he promised never more to importune her on the subject, provided
she would allow him that share in her confidence which hitherto he had been so
happy as to enjoy. However unfavourably she had received the declaration he had
made, nothing could ever make him abate of that zealous regard it was his duty
to retain for her happiness; and, to prove the heroic nature of his feelings,
insinuated that he would, if she approved, endeavour to promote her union with
the man whom she honoured with a secret attachment.
Charlotte, highly offended at so
indelicate an intimation, absolutely forbad his interference on the subject,
assuring him, that, whatever her thoughts might have been, she never would
accept an overture of the kind from Mr. Danby.—The entrance of Miss Grimstone here put an end to the tête-à-tête.
C H A P. XI.
Shews there are Stratagems in Love as in
War.
JUSTLY offended as
Miss Overbury was at the gross intimation of Sir Bevil, as well as disgusted at
the meanness of his conduct, there was certainly nothing farther from his
intentions than the very measure he had so indelicately proposed; on the
contrary, he took a resolution the same hour of waiting on Mrs. Danby, in order
to cut off all hopes she might have entertained of seeing her son allied to his
ward. Rather surprised at so unexpected a visit, Mrs. Danby received the
baronet with her accustomed politeness, and, as she happened to have no
company, they were no sooner seated than the following conversation took place.
“I have been induced, my dear madam,
to do myself the honour of this visit solely by the opinion, which, in common
with the rest of the world, I have justly entertained of Mrs. Danby’s uncommon candour and discernment. (The lady bowed.)
An apology for the motives of this visit would be an affront to both.”
“Be explicit, Sir Bevil: you have
both interested my attention and curiosity.”
“Then, madam, give me leave to ask
one question.”
“As many as you please,” with a
smile of candour.
“How long has there subsisted a
tender connection between Miss Overbury and Mr. Danby, your son?”
“You infinitely astonish me by the
enquiry, Sir Bevil. There never has subsisted any connection. What reason can
you possibly have for supposing so?”
“Pardon me, madam; I am sufficiently
sensible of the merit of every part of your amiable family, and beg you will
believe, could my wishes effect it, every desired happiness would attend it.”
“But your reasons for asking the
question, Sir Bevil.”
“Common report, madam; I have not
been favoured with a better authority.”
“That is at best but a vague one,
and is founded in mere conjecture on the intimacy so happily subsisting between
Miss Overbury and myself. You are no stranger, Sir Bevil, to the character of
that young lady’s father, though possibly you are to the obligations which he
conferred on my family, the remembrance of which has prompted me to shew every
possible respect to his amiable daughter, whom I entirely honour for her own
personal merit.—I know of no other connection.”
“It is not an infallible consequence
(smiling) that Mrs. Danby must be apprised of a fact of that kind.”
“Excuse me, (speaking in a more
elevated tone;) the consequence is indubitable. George, and I glory in the
assertion, has a soul superior to disguise, and would blush to be thought
capable of sordid or dishonourable views.”
“Nobody in the world, my dear madam,
can possibly have a more perfect conviction of Mr. Danby’s
exalted merit than myself; and, had I a daughter of my own, such an alliance
would be my pride: but, as the guardian of Miss Overbury, a different mode of
conduct may be necessary. She has a fortune, and the world, you know, my good
Mrs. Danby, will not permit her marrying without one. You comprehend me, I
see.”
“Perfectly, Sir Bevil. I honour and
applaud your sentiments, and am extremely happy to be convinced that the
daughter of my friend is blest with a guardian so duly attentive to her
interest. For your more entire satisfaction, give me leave to assure you, that
I should despise my son, did I suspect him capable of endeavouring, by any
means whatever, of seducing Miss Overbury’s
affections, who, for more reasons than one, never could be his. George’s
behaviour to me warrants me to say that I know every secret disposition of his
soul, and therefore do now assert that he entertains not the remotest thought
of aspiring to the honour of Miss Overbury’s hand.”
“I am perfectly satisfied, good
madam; this frankness and condescension fully justifies the expectations I had
formed on the occasion; but, as such a report may possibly be of some
disadvantage to the young lady, we ought to suppress it as far as lies in our
power.”
“It will drop of itself. My son is
gone to the continent, and his absence (which I expect will be for some time)
must of course be a proper refutation.”
“Something more effectual may be
done. As Mrs. Danby’s superior judgment convinces her
of the importance of quashing so idle an opinion as this which the public has
imbibed, she will, I am confident, readily concur in any innocent measures to
that purpose. I have just thought of a scheme. Suppose we insert a paragraph in
some morning-paper, importing that Mr. Danby is actually married to another
lady.—This will do the business at once.”
By this method the baronet secretly
hoped to give the last blow to Charlotte’s acknowledged tenderness for the
young gentleman, a circumstance which he did not think proper to divulge to
Mrs. Danby. That lady, however, reddening with indignation at the proposal,
replied with some warmth, “I have ever found truth, Sir Bevil, so abundantly
effectual to all the purposes of honour and generosity, that you must pardon me
for refusing, in this case, to deviate therefrom.”
Stung at an expression which
conveyed, though tacitly, a pointed reflection on his principles, Sir Bevil at
first felt a little chagrined; but, as it was not the first time he had been
called on to put a clean gloss on a dirty sentiment, he soon recovered himself,
and, with a good deal of effrontery, resumed, with a laugh, “How necessary it
is for us to have a prudent and amiable monitress
sometimes at hand! ’Pon honour, madam, you have saved
me from making a slip I was scarcely aware of;—it would indeed be a subterfuge
unworthy either you or me.”
He then, politely thanking her for
the frankness with which she had received his visit, took leave, apparently
impressed with the highest opinion of her candour and generosity.
But, as we generally draw the
characters of our neighbours as much like the dark side of our own as possible,
the baronet was very far from giving entire credit to all which Mrs. Danby had
asserted. To think one thing and speak another was, he knew, extremely
practicable, and therefore he concluded it might be very possible for her to
facilitate the connection between the young people, notwithstanding all she had
urged to the contrary, especially since it was her interest so to do. In short,
he resolved to break off all further acquaintance between the two ladies. With
regard to the promise he had given Charlotte, of no more importuning her on the
subject of his passion, he did indeed literally observe it. Yet, as the
acquisition of twenty-five thousand pounds was so very convenient to his
deranged finances, he could not tamely submit to the relinquishing it. While,
therefore, his discourses manifested the utmost confidence in her sincerity,
and implicit submission to her will, he was, in fact, acting the part of a
jealous spy on all her actions. Under colour of paying her the highest respect,
he was become her constant attendant wherever she went, and even proceeded so
far as to forego the business of the gaming-table rather than not be the
witness of her conduct when at home. Finding it impossible for her to visit
even her beloved Mrs. Danby without the impertinent attendance of a third
person, she had declined going as often as usual to Ormond-street, yet the
intimacy was still supported by the exchange of the most friendly billets. A
longer time than she expected having elapsed since she had heard any thing of
that valuable acquaintance, she expressed her surprise in a short note, which,
having sealed, she delivered to a footman, with orders to convey it. About half
an hour afterwards, happening to pass swiftly through the lobby, she perceived the
same servant putting a letter into Sir Bevil’s hand,
which a glance of the eye was sufficient to convince her was the identical one
she had addressed to Mrs. Danby. The nature of her situation (of which before
she had some suspicion) was now clearly demonstrated, and the circumstance,
added to the behaviour of Miss Grimstone, who had
never forgiven the affair of Baron Vanhawsen,
operated so sensibly on a temper naturally warm and open, that, in the first
emotions of resentment, she determined on accepting the offers of the
Butterfield family, rather than longer reside in a house where she was guarded
with Spanish jealousy. Without condescending to notice the excessive meanness
she had just discovered in the baronet’s conduct, she immediately dispatched the
following letter by the hand of her own woman to the post-office.
MISS BUTTERFIELD,
ASHTON PRIORY,
SOMERSET.
“I know not how to atone for the
rudeness of suffering my dear Eliza’s letter so long to remain unanswered,
otherwise than by asking her permission to make my apologies in person. The
politeness and friendship expressed therein demand my gratitude, which I cannot
better demonstrate than by immediately complying with the invitation; but, as,
for some particular reasons, I cannot absolutely fix on a time for leaving
London, I would wish to submit that point entirely to your good mother, whose
commands in that and every other respect will always be properly regarded by,
My
dear madam,
Your
obliged and affectionate
CHARLOTTE OVERBURY.”
C H A P. XII.
New Arrangement of Family-Matters.
THE foregoing epistle
was received at the Priory with a satisfaction greater than Charlotte could
possibly have expected. Mrs. Butterfield was no sooner apprised of its contents
than her rapture was beyond all bounds of moderation; for it is to be noticed,
that, though her daughter had been the means of conveying the invitation, and
certainly did wish for the society of one of her own sex and age, yet she durst
not have taken that measure but at the express command of her mother, who,
finding her policy hitherto ineffectual, rationally supposed that the most
likely way of obtaining her point would be by setting a correspondence on foot
between the two girls. The project seemed now ripening beyond her hopes, and,
after exhausting her breath, in an eloquent speech, in praise of her own
abilities, she declared it to be absolutely necessary that the coach should be
sent to town to fetch the young lady.
“A good thought, (said Mr.
Butterfield,) and I will go vor her myzelf.”
“You go! (with a sarcastic smile.) I
believe I know your debilities
before to-day. No, Sir, I will go first; you may precede me if you will.”
“As you please, (cried the pacific
magistrate.) I hate the being jolted along your Lunnun
streets;—but won’t you take Bess with you?”
“Pray, madam, (said the young lady
with an air of modest entreaty,) do give me leave to see the capital?”——Nothing
could be more unfortunate for her suit than her father’s having moved it
before; for Mrs. Butterfield, in all things valuing herself on the properties
of a good wife, as one instance of her domestic qualifications, had resolved to
have every thing her own way. To comply with the request of a husband was
generally considered by her as a conduct too pusillanimous for a house-wife of
talents and spirit to submit to.—“You go, child, (replied she;) a pretty
request truly for one of your age. I was at least five and twenty before I went
to London, and then, indeed, (drawing her head half a dozen inches higher,) I made
some improvement by it.”
Eliza, however, as soon as her
father had retired, exerted herself so effectually, that Mrs. Butterfield, for
once, receded from her established maxim; and, although the proposal had come
from her husband, consented that her daughter should accompany her.
It will not be necessary to insert a
detail of the journey; suffice it to say that the lady, though extremely
anxious to reach town, did not travel post, but by such easy stages as she knew
the old family vehicle would bear, and arrived at length in the metropolis. Not
much regarding the rules of etiquette, Mrs. Butterfield was no sooner set down
at the inn, than, ordering the coachman to take care of the horses, she
immediately sat off for Bedford-square; where, enquiring for Miss Overbury, she
was introduced to her presence, and received with the satisfaction of a
prisoner when the prospect of liberty is once more afforded him. Miss Grimstone soon after joined them, as did Sir Bevil, when
dressed; for, though his heart recoiled at the name of Butterfield, he could
not possibly be seen by a lady before every minutiae of dress had been duly
adjusted— Mean time, after the introductory compliments had passed, the
following conversation took place in the parlour.
“You know the world, Miss Grace, as
well as I do, and therefore must allow that it is not prudent for a young lady
of remarkable contractions to
live in this London. No, no, it is not the thing. Young women, instead of perspiring to be admired, should learn
good housewifery in the country.”
Miss Grimstone,
as yet unacquainted with the sentiments of Miss Overbury, and scarcely able to
conceal her joy at the hopes of parting with so hated a rival, replied,
“You are perfectly right, my dear
madam. My brother, Sir Bevil, indeed, out of a culpable softness of
disposition, was fond of indulging his ward in whatever she made an object of
choice; but, for my part, though excessively fond of dear Charlotte’s sweet
company, I must confess, I always thought the measure an improper one.”
“There, do you see, Eliza. I was quite in the right.
Ah! I know the world,—the arts of undesigning
men,—the schemes of contingent
fortune-hunters,—all these things should be considered; and, as Miss Overbury
was intrusted to our care, it is my duty to act as a
mother to her. Indeed, my dear child, (taking Charlotte fondly by the hand,) I
love you with a true fraternal
regard, as though you were my own daughter.”
“Though I shall suffer extremely by
the loss of so charming a companion, (resumed Miss Grimstone,)
I cannot but confess, Mrs. Butterfield, the propriety of your arguments, and,
since you have been so kind as to take a second journey confessedly from a
motive of pure regard to Miss Overbury, I hope she will not be so much her own
enemy as to reject your very friendly overtures. I am compelled, my dear
Charlotte, (affecting to weep,) thus to avow my sentiments, though the pain I
shall suffer in parting with you is inexpressible.”
The hypocrisy of this declaration
excited the utmost contempt in the candid bosom of Charlotte. Sir Bevil here
broke in on the discourse, expressing the most entire satisfaction at the sight
of Mrs. Butterfield, “Which (said he) is a happiness I could not so soon have
presumed to expect.”
“Indeed, Sir Bevil, I should not
have been here now, had it not been for the purpose of attending Miss Overbury
back.”
“Attending Miss Overbury, madam!
(agitated;) she does not wish to quit her London friends I believe.”
“Why not? She may find as good,
though not as gaudy, ones in the country.”
Charlotte, to satisfy Sir Bevil’s doubts at once, addressing herself to Mrs.
Butterfield, said, she was quite ready to accompany her into the country. “And
you shall, sweet one, (returned the lady.) We will set out to-morrow: but, now
I think on it, it cannot be till the next day, as the poor horses must have
some rest.”
“Then, madam, give me leave to be
with you till that time.”
“Pretty soul;—you see, Miss Grace,
she is very dulcet, and easy to
be led. Let me alone for the management of young folks: I always redress them with such arguments as infect their reason. Our sect is not to be governed by
contradiction: I never was in my life.”
During this elegant harangue, Sir
Bevil appeared half petrified with astonishment.—He perceived that all was
lost. However, making one effort more, he said, “Surely, Miss Overbury, you
will give us your company as long as Mrs. Butterfield stays in town?”
To this she replied, that, in order
to spare Mrs. Butterfield the trouble of making another visit to the square, it
would be full as well to accompany her now. Perceiving, as much by her looks as
words, that she was peremptorily bent on quitting his family, he resumed, that,
since this was her intention, it was necessary he should settle some affairs
with her before she went into the country, and therefore requested she would
give him her company for a few minutes in the library. The request being
accompanied by a particular earnestness of manner, Charlotte judged the respect
due to a guardian obliged her to comply with it, and therefore suffered Sir
Bevil to conduct her to his library, where, taking her hand, he said with an
impassioned tone, “I doubt, Miss Overbury, I have only to blame the temerity of
my own conduct for this unexpected measure, and therefore conclude all attempts
to alter your determination would be ineffectual. I am unhappy, and perhaps
deserve to be so; yet, could I think you would remember me with pity, my
situation would be rendered less insupportable.”
“With pity, Sir Bevil?—No. I will
suppose you capable of exciting a more exalted sentiment. I will consider you
only in the light in which I formerly revered you; that is, as the best of
guardians and most generous of men, and as such assure yourself of my gratitude
and esteem.”
“Your oblique reproaches, Charlotte,
force me to blush; yet, could you read my heart:—but no more of this. May you
be happy.——Might I but be assured in one point—”
“What is that, Sir?”
“That you will never give your hand
to Danby, for then I am certain your ruin will be inevitable. Promise me only
this.”
“Of such an event there is not the
most distant probability. Whatever might once have been the nature of my
sentiments, I hope I have now suppressed every remembrance of Mr. Danby, but
such as the respect I bear his mother entitles him to from me. Yet, Sir Bevil,
give me leave to say, that I consider your endeavour to extort such a promise
as a farther demonstration of that arbitrary meanness which your conduct of
late has discovered, and therefore tell you, that Charlotte Overbury will be
free.”
Had Sir Bevil, some months before,
proposed such a promise to her, she would doubtless have considered it as the
effect of a disinterested regard to her welfare, and consequently have returned
a very different reply. It could now be esteemed only as the dictates of
selfishness and hypocrisy, and consequently was received with that warmth
which, on some occasions, was the characteristic of our heroine. The baronet
plainly perceived, that, as much an adept as he was in the art of
dissimulation, he had now to deal with one, who, though perfectly a stranger to
artifice herself, was mistress of too much penetration to be long the dupe of
his selfish policy. The only means of coming off, as he thought tolerably decently,
was to affect a compunction for the weaknesses into which his affection for her
had betrayed him, and this he did with so serious, contrite, and respectful, an
air, that Charlotte, in spite of her resentment, was led to afford him the very
sentiment he at first had demanded,—namely, pity. After assuring him of her
readiness to forget whatever had given her displeasure, and to remember him
only with gratitude and respect, she returned to the parlour, and soon after
took a polite leave of Miss Grimstone, in order to
accompany Mrs. Butterfield and her daughter. As for Sir Bevil, he had avoided
the pain of a formal adieu by abruptly retiring. His feelings on this occasion
were certainly not the most enviable; for, though pecuniary motives had been
primarily predominant in his addresses to Miss Overbury, he really entertained
for her a very tender regard. We do not mean that kind which is usually
denominated love, but such as a man of common sensibility must unavoidably
imbibe towards an amiable young creature, with whom he has long been intimately
acquainted. The being thus unexpectedly deprived, as well of her company as her
confidence, was a circumstance, which, abstracted from selfish considerations,
afforded him sensible concern. His house, when no longer enlivened by
Charlotte’s innocent vivacity, appeared a perfect vacuum. The conversation of
his sister, more stupid than ever, and that intolerable petulance, which had so
often been directed to the most engaging girl in the universe, was now too odious
to be borne. In short, they saw each other as seldom as possible,—the lady
devoting herself with great alacrity to redeeming, by augmented flippancy, the
time she supposed had been lost during the blaze of rival beauty, and the
gentleman to recruiting a broken fortune at the gaming-table, since Hymen had
stubbornly refused to do him that good office.
C H A P. XIII.
Specimen of Economy.
ELIZA Butterfield,
though a very different character from Charlotte Overbury, was nevertheless one
of that description, in whom a person of tolerable good-nature might find a
pleasing companion. Her understanding was by no means contemptible, and her
temper was remarkably sweet. Conscious of her own inexperience, she was modest
and unassuming, perfectly delicate in her manners and refined in
sentiment,—qualities which she owed more to nature than the benefit of parental
example or tuition; in short, she was in every respect the very reverse of her
mother, whose rusticity and illiberal ideas formed the very opposite extreme to
the mental refinement of her daughter. The young ladies experienced a sincere
satisfaction in each other’s society, and soon such an intimacy was formed
between them as proved that friendship may subsist independent of entire
congeniality of taste. Miss Butterfield materially differed from her companion,
in that she was far gone in the romantic taste;—so far, indeed, that she had
acquired exactly that softness of soul which is peculiarly inimical to the
happiness of common life, by teaching the possessor to despise every
satisfaction which is not rapture, and to overlook every virtue which is not
heroic. Nor are its effects less pernicious with regard to honour and
reputation. Too often the fair enthusiast nourishes a fatal sensibility, which
lays her open to the designs of the artful and the vile: while fondly dreaming
of chimerical perfection, she takes a serpent to her bosom, who stings her
peace and fame. That Eliza was one of this cast was more her misfortune than
fault. Immured in a country-village, without one companion of her own sex whose
conversation could soften the rigours of solitude, her lively imagination
panted for amusement of a higher kind than what the dull domestic circle in the
Priory afforded. Books were a resource; she was fond of reading,—yet who should
direct her literary pursuits? The justice read only acts of parliament, and
Mrs. Butterfield knew one book from another merely as it treated of the
culinary art or not. Some ancestors of the family had possessed the
publications of their day, but these had long since been thrown by as useless
lumber, and consequently were torn to pieces. Thus left to select her own
subjects, it is no wonder that amusement rather than instruction was the
object, and that such trash as chance afforded became the pernicious food of a
mind naturally adapted to the highest improvement. Charlotte was not long
ignorant of this part of her friend’s character; she knew and pitied it. She
did more, she hoped, with the assistance of time, to rectify so improper a
taste.
But we are anticipating matters when
we ought to be soberly pursuing the thread of our story.
Mrs. Butterfield, perfectly at ease
in having effected her plan with so little difficulty, and finding she had now
a whole day on her hands, resolved to employ this time to be spent in London in
the most advantageous manner, which, according to her idea, (being what is
called an excellent œconomist,) consisted in
purchasing every thing she thought cheap, whether absolutely necessary or not;
for, as long as her house was stored with pennyworths, the interest of money
lost in such useless purchases was a point to which her genius did not extend.
As soon then as breakfast was over, she began her tour among the shops,
cheapening every thing which caught her eye. Having picked up a quantity of
upholstery and cabinet goods, &c. many of which she might have purchased
equally cheap and good in her own neighbourhood. Her next business was to stock
the wardrobes of the family, (which indeed were sufficiently stored before,) on
which occasion her behaviour was absurd and affronting; for, concluding
doubtless that she was dealing with some of those pedlars
who hawk the country so much to the disadvantage of honest stationary traders,
she would, when a piece of goods was shewn her, very modestly offer just half
the given price.
“For shame, mamma, (whispered Eliza,
with a gentle twitch of her cloak,) how can you do so?”
“Hold your tongue, child, Do you
think I am so weak as to give people just what they ask for their goods?—Let me
alone: I did not come to town to fling money away so foolishly.”
At the different shops where she
chose to display her excellent talent of bargaining, some were seriously
offended, others would bid her repair to Rag-fair. One among them, however,
penetrating into the nature of her character, very coolly put back the piece of
silk she had been cheapening, and, taking down some others, the price of which
he prudently affixed at exactly half as much more as he chose to take, told her
there were some goods, which, he believed, would suit her. Mrs. Butterfield
could not but own they were elegant and good in their kind, though most
extravagantly dear, and, according to expectation, offered her own price. The shopman, after a decent reluctance, consented to the
bargain, and the lady, perfectly satisfied with having outwitted a Londoner,
retired to her carriage with the trophies of her address and understanding.
It remained now for the several
articles to be properly disposed for carriage, many of which were necessarily
obliged to be committed to a stage-waggon; but, in order to save expence, it was resolved that as many, or indeed more than
the strength of the coach could well sustain, should be packed in and on it, in
the most commodious manner. Accordingly, behind was lodged a large mahogany
dining-table, which served as the basis of looking-glass cases, &c. which,
being piled in a very ingenious manner, supported the enormous load of boxes
and trunks placed on the top of the carriage: neither must we omit to say that
the minute attention of this good lady had provided that the fore part of it
should also sustain a proportionable part of the
general burden, by contriving to stow as much as she could in the vacancy
between the axle-tree and the coach-box. As for parcels, there being only three
inside passengers, they were deposited on the seats, leaving only as much space
as would admit of themselves to squeeze in.—Robin, the coachman, muttered and
swore that the horses were unable to draw such a luggage; but, Mrs. Butterfield
observing, that, as they were not straitened for time, they could travel by
easy stages, the matter was settled, and the next morning they began their
journey to the West.
Moving in a sort of solemn state, by
the third evening they had reached the city of Salisbury, where it was
determined they should rest for the night. The uncommon appearance of this
moving warehouse excited a good deal of mirth among the gentry of the inn-yard.
The hostler, a lad of more vivacity than prudence, no
sooner saw the coachman and footman properly settled by the kitchen fire, than,
catching up a brush out of a pot of red paint which stood by, he wrote, in
legible characters, on one of the pannels of the
coach, Butterfield’s common Stage-Cart.—Mrs. Butterfield, intending to set off
early in the morning, retired, as soon as supper was over, as did also the
servants, who had not been long withdrawn when there arrived a sailor, who some
days before had landed at Portsmouth, and, being obliged to quit the service on
account of ill health, was then on his way to his own parish. Perceiving the
inscription with which the waggery of the hostler had honoured Madam Butterfield’s vehicle, and not
stopping narrowly to investigate particulars, he exclaimed, “What ship, my
lads? I want a snug birth to the westward.” The hostler
immediately caught the joke, and told him if he would be content to wait a few
hours, he would insure him a safe passage for sixpence. The poor fellow had no
objection to repose his weary limbs over a jug of ale by the kitchen-fire, mean
while the other contrived for the due completion of his plan. He had received
orders to summon Mrs. Butterfield’s coachman at four o’clock, which was at
least then two hours before day-light. As the latter was busied in accoutring
his horses in the stable, the hostler informed the
sailor that the cart was ready to set out, who thereupon, paying the stipulated
premium of sixpence, crept, unperceived, into the coach, and fell very
comfortably asleep. It not being quite light when the ladies got in, it was not
easy for them to discriminate their guest amidst such a profusion of luggage,
and Robin was ordered to go on. They had drove about five or six miles, when
their companion, endeavouring to shake off the bonds of Morpheus,
yawned so loudly, that the ladies, dreadfully affrighted, uttered a most
violent shriek. The sailor, not less surprized than
themselves, bawled out, “Avast there,—avast there, I say;—what news from the deck?” By this time
the coachman had stopped his horses, and
the footman was come up, of whom Mrs. Butterfield demanded, in great wrath,
what wretch he had suffered to get into the carriage. “Hold there, (cried the
sailor,) let us have none of this lingo. We are all bound to the same port, I suppose,
or somewhere about, and so let us sail quietly together, I say.” The footman
having opened the door, and let in the rays of the dawn, the son of Neptune was
discovered jammed into a corner amongst the luggage. Mrs. Butterfield,
perfectly outrageous, told him to be gone that instant.
“Not I truly, (replied the man,) I
like my cot well enough. If you are not pleased, mistress, turn out yourself
for me.”
“Drag him out, Tom, this instant.—A
pretty fancy, indeed, for such fragrants to get into
a gentleman’s coach!”
“D—n it, (cried the sailor,) why the
woman is groggy this morning.—A gentleman’s coach, eh!”
Charlotte, to whom the habit of a
sailor was always a recommendation, discerning more in the affair than Mrs.
Butterfield’s passion would permit her to do, observed that there must have
been some mistake, and then, in a voice of good-nature, added, “Pray, honest
friend, tell me by what means you got into this carriage.”
“Aye, (answered the other,) now you
speak civilly, I will say something to you. Why you must know, that, being half
dead with the rheumatism and scurvy, I was looking out for some conveyance,
when the hostler at the inn told me I might get a
lift in Butterfield’s stage-cart here; so, having paid my fare, I got quietly
in, d’ye see,—that’s all, my lass. What a deuce makes
that old Jezabel set up her whistle so loudly?”
“I told you, madam, (said
Charlotte,) there must have been a mistake. The poor fellow is not to blame.—My
friend, (turning to the sailor,) you have been grossly imposed upon: this is a
gentleman’s carriage.”
“Nay, then, I will get out this
moment, and I heartily ask the lady’s pardon;—but, by my soul, it was as I say,
and I paid my sixpence to the bargain; but d—n the money, if that’s all.”
“Dear mamma, (whispered Eliza,) it
can do us no harm if he goes a little farther,—he is so lame.”
A look from her mother half
petrified the compassionate girl. Mean time the sailor had quitted the coach,
but Charlotte followed him with her eye till she saw they were not more than a
couple of yards from a public-house, at which she desired they might stop and
get a glass of water, though, in reality, it was a pretext in order to obtain
some conversation with the poor invalid, who was but a few paces behind the
coach when she stepped out of it. She saw him pallid with sickness, his crutch
scarcely supported his emaciated limbs. “Take this, (said she, putting two
guineas into his hand,) and procure a more peaceable conveyance.—From what part
of the world are you last come, friend?”
“The West Indies, lady, (brushing
off a tear of gratitude.) The Hector was my ship, Captain Overbury, commander.”
“Jack Overbury! (clasping her
hands.) Is he well,—is he?” Here she could utter no more, tears had choaked her voice.
“You know him then, lady?”
“He is my brother.—But, say, is he well, is the ship
expected home?”
“You are then akin, madam, to the
bravest gentleman that ever rode the wooden horse. Captain Overbury is a
true-hearted lad as ever snuffed sea-air; and, though I am infirm now, if I
live to recover, I would sail with him to the world’s end.”
“But is he well?”
“He was last June, and I hope will
long remain so. It was the sorest trouble I ever knew in my life, when I was
obliged to be put aboard the Swallow to come to England; I blubbered like a
child when the captain bid me never fear; “for, though it be hazy weather at
present, (said he,) it will clear up, my lad.”—Ah! he is true heart of oak,
madam.”
“Honest soul, I honour thee for thy
affection. Where is your home and what is your name?”
“Will Sanders, madam. My wife and
children live about three miles from Ashton; though I am sure I had forgot
Madam Butterfield as much as though I had never seen her in my life.”
Here, Mrs. Butterfield becoming
impatient of the delay, Charlotte was obliged to resume the carriage, but not
before Sanders had received an assurance that his honest zeal should be
remembered on a future day.
“I wonder, Miss Overbury, (said Mrs.
Butterfield, with an air of disdain,) how you could suffer such an objectful
wretch to speak to you.”
“I could have heard him for ever,
madam, on the subject we were upon. He gave me intelligence of my brother.”
“That alters the case, to be sure.
The captain is coming home perhaps. Eliza, hold up your head, child: the
captain is a worthy man.—I wonder if he is married.—What an ugly cast you have
with your eye, child!—I dare say (musing) he is not married.”
Charlotte could give no decisive
evidence on the point, and the subject was dropped.
C H A P. XIV.
Ludicrous Effect of excessive
Sensibility.
OUR fair travellers
once more reseated, they proceeded on their journey
without farther interruption, till the spacious plain of Sarum
lay far behind them, when an incident occurred, which, in order to illustrate
the fine feelings of one part of the company, we think ought not to be omitted.
——The person, who travels towards the extremities of this kingdom, must not
expect the wheels of his carriage always to move with the same facility as if
they were rolling over a bowling-green; for, though there is scarcely a village
in the whole island which does not contain some one who, having filled an
official character in the management of the turnpikes, will talk as loudly on
the matter as a minister of state on opening the budget, yet it happens here
sometimes as in matters of higher concern, much speaking is apt to produce an afflatus, and a good dinner, or a bowl of
punch, becomes necessary to set all to rights again,—and here the business
rests. Now Mrs. Butterfield’s carriage was necessitated to pass through a long
narrow dirty rugged lane, at the end of which was a collection of waters, not
much resembling the pellucid streams of Pactolus;
for, instead of golden sands, its bottom was composed of a deep black mud.
Robin, nothing intimidated, lashed his steeds boldly into the dusky wave: but
here, so fortune would have it, the old coach gave way;—crash went the
axle-tree, and screams uttered the ladies. What was to be done?—Robin was
preparing to unharness his coach-horses, in order to
extricate the unfortunate dames from so unpleasant a situation, when, very
fortunately, a single-horse chaise appeared, in which sat what is called in the
country, by way of honorary distinction, a gentleman-farmer;—that is, one who,
by dint of good seasons and long leases, can afford to tack a pair of wheels to
the tail of his mare, and thus, if the gout or rheumatism makes an attack,
comfortably lounges it in a “leathern conveniency.”
This gentleman, considering the distressful scene before him, politely offered
to take the three ladies into his chaise, which offer was readily accepted;
but, alas! before the misfortune could be thus redressed, poor Eliza’s
brilliant eyes were closed in darkness,—or, in other words, she had, or pretented to have, fainted. She was, however, conveyed into
the chaise, which soon brought them to a very decent house, where they were
received by the farmer’s wife with much hospitality, and very comfortably
accommodated while the coach was repairing by a neighbouring carpenter.
Eliza, having been laid on a bed in
the best apartment, recovered in due time.—Mrs. Butterfield was withdrawn to
have some chat with her good hostess, and Charlotte only remained with the fair
invalid, who now began to breathe such profound sighs as seriously alarmed her
companion. “What is the matter?” said she anxiously.
“O Charlotte, why that distressing
question? Would you wrest from me a secret which I dare not confess to myself?”
“Bless me, Eliza, what can you
mean?—what secret is this?”
“Oh! ask me not, I intreat. Yet, my sweet friend, in your sympathetic bosom, I
know it might be safely deposited, and perhaps your compassion may administer
consolation to the ill fated Eliza.”
“Do not torture me, Eliza. Speak
out, I beseech you, for you alarm me beyond expression.”
“Ill-fated day! (resumed the young
lady, sighing most bitterly;) O most unfortunate accident!”
“If that be all, my dear, we shall
do well enough. The coach is in a fair way to be repaired, and in the mean time
we are very comfortably situated I assure you.”
“I doubt it not;—but where is
he?—where is that all-accomplished youth, who, by redressing my misfortune, has
rendered me the most miserable of human beings?”
Miss Overbury, actually concluding
her to be in a state of delirium, quietly drew the curtains close around the
bed, and seated herself in silence on the chair which stood beside it.
“Cruel girl! (exclaimed Miss
Butterfield,) is it thus you repay my confidence? Is this the sympathy I was
led to expect from you?”
“Compose yourself, my love; you want
rest.”
“Name not rest!—that is ever more
denied me, since I have seen this exalted, this divine creature. Did you not
observe the enchanting grace with which he offered his assistance? What
expression in his eyes! What delicacy, what sentiment, in his manner!”
“Whom can you mean, Eliza?”
“Happy Charlotte! That insensibility
of yours has now been your security. Ah! why was I formed with such exquisite
perceptions!”
“Seriously, my dear, there was not a
single person near us but the friendly old gentleman at whose house we now
are.”
“I see the aim of this. You have
discovered the state of my heart, and would suppress a hopeless passion by
persuading me those eyes could be deceived. The intention is kind, but, O my
Charlotte, the mischief is beyond those means of cure. Never, never can I
obliterate from my memory the idea of that lovely youth at the moment my
enraptured eye beheld him approaching to our relief. Was it the effect of a too
sanguine imagination that I thought his looks were directed to me with an
expression which, though ineffable, my fond heart too readily understood?”
Here Miss Overbury could no longer
repress her risibility; bursting into a hearty laugh, she replied, “Well,
Eliza, I will not think this dreadful case absolutely hopeless. If a first
sight has done so much mischief, the second I am sure will effectually redress
it.” We know not how the young lady might have been inclined to resent this
want of sympathy in her friend, but, at this juncture, the good woman of the
house, having provided a refreshment of tea, coffee, cakes hot from the oven,
new butter, and cream, dispatched her daughter to request the two ladies’
attendance. Scarcely were they seated when the farmer himself entered the room,
hobbling on his crutch, with both legs swaddled in flannels, having but lately
obtained a respite from a fit of the gout. He was a little fat swarthy man, of
about fifty-five, with a face seamed by the small pox, and had on a blue coat,
scarlet waistcoat, a small round black wig, and a silk handkerchief, tied round
his neck by way of cravat. “Much good may it do you, ladies, (said he;) I hope
none of you are now the worse for the fright.”
“My dear Miss Butterfield, (said
Charlotte, archly) this is the kind gentleman, who so opportunely arrived to
our assistance. See, my dear, (with a particular emphasis,) the generous
deliverer, to whom your acknowledgments are due.”
Eliza, conscious of her folly, threw
her eyes on the ground with a confusion incomprehensible to all but the
confident of her romantic weakness. Both the farmer and his wife attributed her
apparent reserve to a certain hauteur not uncommon in the behaviour of those
who would blush at being thought in company of their inferiors; neither was it
perhaps the first instance of the kind they had met with. Superior, however, to
so despicable a sentiment, the good farmer replied, that there were no
acknowledgments necessary,—the being at hand to render assistance, when
needful, was to him a sufficient satisfaction. Charlotte, though more disposed
to pity than ridicule so palpable a weakness, could not help whispering in her
ear, that she hoped her malady was not of the most desperate kind; to which she
received no other answer but a deep blush.—During the remainder of the journey,
Eliza observed a profound silence, and so painful was the sense of shame
excited by this ridiculous incident, that, had not this mental disease taken
deep root, we believe it must have now met with an effectual remedy.—Whether
this was actually the case, the subsequent part of this history must
demonstrate.
C H A P. XV.
Introduces such Characters as the
Reader may
find any where.
AMONG the first
visitors at the Priory, on Mrs. Butterfield’s return, were Mr. and Mrs.
Martin;—the former a petty-fogging attorney of the neighbourhood, who for some
years past had officiated as amanuensis to Mr. Butterfield. The knowledge which
this worthy gentleman possessed of the law was exactly such as served the
purposes of a narrow, selfish, and irascible disposition. He knew enough of it
to be a rogue whenever occasion served, but either from dulness
of parts or baseness of soul had never been able to catch any thing of its
spirit, by which, rather than the letter, the welfare and happiness of society
is promoted. It rarely happened but he had entangled in his net some
unfortunate being or other, and had actually been the ruin of several petty
farmers in the neighbourhood, who chanced not to be sufficiently submissive to
the tyrannical oppressions of the little great around them, to whom Martin’s
activity and genius was often peculiarly useful. In consequence, he became the
scourge and terror of the peasantry for twenty miles round, and was dreaded
much more than the justice himself, to whom the judicial character appertained,
but the real power was lodged in this limb of the law.
The same ascendency
which Mr. Martin’s abilities acquired in respect of Mr. Butterfield, his wife,
by singular address, had obtained over his lady. This woman possessed a most
artful disposition, some knowledge of the world, and withal that busy restless
spirit which is never at ease but when interfering with the affairs of its
neighbours.—The latter trait, which in some persons is the effect of an idle inquisitiveness,
in Mrs. Martin was the result of a temper sordid and malignant, which is ever
watching opportunities of employing the weakness and foibles of others to
selfish mercenary purposes. Mrs. Butterfield was a weak illiterate woman, very
opinionated, fond of flattery, and of course credulously open to the designs of
every one who offered it. This the other perfectly well understood, and
therefore her business was not to affect the possessing any superior talents
herself, but on all occasions to suppose the existence of such in her
neighbour, by which means she had contrived to become the primum mobile of the family, nothing of moment being ever
transacted at the Priory that had not first obtained her sanction. We are not
however to suppose that the lady’s views were merely those of empty honour;
for, besides dining two or three times a week at the justice’s table, her own
was pretty well supplied from his larder with fish, game, or other rarities of
the season, not to mention the frequent presents of apparel, &c. which she
received from the generosity of Mrs. Butterfield.
On her introduction to Miss
Overbury, the latter could not avoid seeing that she seemed to eye her with
particular scrutiny, which was indeed the case. Mrs. Martin was not entirely
satisfied whether the residence of that young lady in the family might prove so
desirable a circumstance. There was something in her looks she did not like,—an
air of intelligence and penetration not altogether pleasing. Eliza was a sweet
girl, so ductile, so soft; but in the other she could discover nothing of so
hopeful a disposition. The two elder ladies having withdrawn to look over the
London bargains, Charlotte made some enquiries respecting Mrs. Martin, to which
Miss Butterfield replied, “I assure you, my dear, she is the sweetest woman in
the world,—so good humoured, and withal so sensible. Mama never does any thing
of consequence without consulting her. Her knowledge is really universal. She
is the best companion imaginable. I should never have been able to sustain this
solitude but for her. Then she seems to enter into one’s feelings with so ready
an apprehension; were she but a few years younger, she would make an excellent
confidante. As it is, Mrs. Martin and I have always been on very intimate
terms, and I verily believe she loves me as well as she could have done a
daughter of her own.”
While Eliza was thus indulging the
panegyric strain, Mrs. Martin was exerting herself much in the same way, though
not with equal sincerity.
“I have been fatigued to death, my
dear Martin, (said Mrs. Butterfield,) since I saw you last,—so much business on
my hands.”
“I do not doubt it in the least. You
are not one of those who would miss a good opportunity, and I dare say have
well employed your time.”
“You must judge of that. To be sure
I have bought a few articles, and you shall now give your opinion whether I
have been imposed on.”
“That I’ll be sworn you have not.
No, no, Mrs. Butterfield, I know you too well for that.”
By this time they were got into a
large spare gallery, where the various purchases laid in a promiscuous huddle,
as it required some study, furnished as was every apartment already, to dispose
conveniently of so vast an acquisition.
“Look at this table, Martin; is it
not belegant?
These glasses, what do you think they cost me?”
To this interrogatory the other took
care to mention about double as much as she supposed them to have cost,
purposely to have a better opportunity of admiring the sagacity of the
purchaser.
“And should you really think them
worth so much? (with a smile of self-applause.) They stood me in little more
than half that sum.”
“You absolutely astonish me.
Positively, my dear madam, I never saw your equal. Well may Mr. Butterfield be
the envy of all the husbands around us.”
“Pshaw! you jest.”
Although this little word pshaw must
be allowed, according to all the rules of verbal criticism, to imply disbelief
or indifference, yet, in the present case, it actually meant no such thing.
Mrs. Butterfield believed every syllable which the other had advanced; it was
impossible to resist the impulse of the moment, and accordingly Mrs. Martin’s
profound discernment was rewarded with a piece of rich flowered silk, (not very
modern indeed, but gaudy enough to cut a splendid dash in a country-church,)
which, after due compliments, she condescended to accept. The conversation then
turned on the young lady who now made one of the family.
“Don’t you think Miss Overbury a perdegis fine
girl?”
“She is very well.”
“She is certainly a perfect beauty,
Martin. We used to think Eliza a tolerable figure, but she must now yield to
her companion.”
“I beg your pardon there, my good
madam. Miss Overbury has a good person, and as to height might have the
advantage, but I cannot give up my sweet Eliza. In my opinion she infinitely
exceeds in point of beauty.”
“I own I cannot see that; but prithee, Martin, (affecting an air of pleasantry,) do you
know any clever young fellow that we can pick out as a husband for Charlotte;
you know she has a commence
fortune.”
It required no skill in the art of
divination to be able to fathom the depth of Mrs. Butterfield’s policy. Mrs.
Martin had already cast the plummet, and therefore could venture to say, “Why,
truly, madam, if I may speak my mind, I think you need not look far from home.”
“That is the very thing I have been
thinking of, between ourselves, Martin.—What is your opinion of such a scheme?”
“It has my approbation and warm wishes also, I assure
you; not but Mr. Arthur’s merits may demand the first lady in the land: but
this would be making it quite a family-affair.”
“Aye, so it would. The poor girl has
no friends but ourselves, and if we could promote her advantage——”
“How benevolent is that reflection!
Such disinterested goodness! Happy Miss Overbury! to have fallen into such
excellent hands; but, pray, my good madam, when do you expect Mr. Arthur home?”
“I hope he will be here in the
course of a week or two. It is best not to allow young people too much liberty
of fixing their inclinations improperly.”
“Right, perfectly right,” cried Mrs.
Martin, which was the mark of approbation she seldom failed to bestow on the
suggestions of her wise neighbour.
And here we must observe, that,
though the above conversation may at first sight appear trifling, it must not
be considered as unimportant to the design of this history. Great events are
usually made up of trifling incidents; and, not to suppress a good simile this
moment dropping from the pen, we would add, that an indifferent spectator of
many of our manufactories would be apt to regard with inattention a minute
wheel or a single screw, yet of such are composed those most ingenious machines
which do honor to the mechanical heads of our
countrymen; and this, by the way, may serve for an apology, if, in our domestic
scenes, we should hereafter stand charged with descending to low or
insignificant matter.
C H A P. XVI.
A Country-Mansion described.
ASHTON-Priory, as Sir
Bevil Grimstone once rightly observed, had formerly
been appropriated to religious retirement. The gothic air of the building
clearly revived an idea of the gloom of the twelfth or thirteenth century,
somewhere about which period it was doubtless erected: yet, durable as was then
the architectural taste, it had, ere now, shared the fate of many structures in
this kingdom of similar antiquity, had not successive proprietors, from time to
time, added such repairs and supplementary erections as suited either their
choice or convenience; insomuch, that this venerable fabric, in its present
state, exhibited an appearance which would puzzle the best connoisseur in
architecture to determine from which of the orders it ought to receive a
denomination. The center was manifestly Gothic, as
the pointed arches of the windows and front door fully expressed. In this part
was the great hall, where the justice, in solemn pomp, exercised the duty of
his function. This, with some gloomy apartments of smaller dimensions, vaulted
passages, and long resounding ailes, composed the
body of the building, which, with a sort of pious respect, was surrounded by
some additions of a more modern aspect. Here a balcony, supported by Doric
pillars, there a Venetian window ornamented by Corinthian capitals, emblazoned
escutcheons, boars’ heads, flying serpents, &c. exhibited an almost endless
variety.
This most extraordinary pile was
situated in a deep valley, closely surrounded by hills, as though the very
light of the sun had been an indulgence too great for the mortified beings who
once inhabited there to enjoy, while the croaking of rooks, the dashing of a
waterfall, and the gloom of overhanging woods, seemed well calculated to sooth
that melancholy, which, in the idea of monkish superstition constituted that
divine principle whose real existence dissipates every mental gloom, and
diffuses serenity and joy through all the powers of the soul.
It will perhaps be thought
improbable that a person of Miss Overbury’s sprightly
temper could possibly support existence in a situation so opposite to the one
she had lately been accustomed to; but her vivacity was not that kind which is
the result of levity, but a constant cheerfulness of mind, arising from
unsullied purity of heart, and universal benevolence,—capable, indeed, of
occasional exhiliration, but never of absolute
depression. This, with a taste for literary pursuits, music, drawing, and other
polite accomplishments, was the reason that the solitude of the Priory was not
so utterly insupportable as once she had imagined it must be.—The Butterfields kept a good table, and visited the best
company in the neighbourhood, among whom she met with some not altogether
unworthy her esteem. It might also be supposed, that a young woman of fortune
would not be wholly unacquainted with the pleasures arising from the exercise
of pity and beneficence. In reality, Charlotte was eminently susceptible of
what is called the milk of human kindness, and often enjoyed the satisfaction
of alleviating the pressure of indigence, and restoring comfort to the
miserable, in which delightful employ Miss Butterfield had an opportunity of
sharing: for, however compassionate her disposition might naturally be, she had
hitherto been restricted from indulging it, in the latitude she wished, by the
parsimonious temper of her mother, who valued herself too much on her economy
to allow her daughter to squander money on vagabonds, the light in which she
always considered those on whom the griping hand of poverty had alighted.
One day, just as dinner was over,
the justice was told that a certain person required his attendance to take cognizance of a theft which had been committed on his
premises. “Very well, (replied he,) I will hear the case in a few minutes; mean
time, run Tom, and tell Mr. Martin to step hither.”—The case at length having
been duly stated, Mr. Butterfield returned to the parlour in a violent pet,
exclaiming, “the rascal, he cannot be above sixteen at most, but I’ll do for
him, I warrant.” He then sat down to finish his bottle in profound silence,
which nobody seemed disposed to interrupt. When Mr. Martin had drawn up a copy
of the indictment, he sent it in for the justice’s perusal, who, cursorily
scanning it over, said, “Aye, aye, it will do well enough, I dare say;—let him
go to prison.”
Miss Overbury, curious to know the
nature of the offence, took up the paper, and read the following words:
“Richard Sanders, convicted of stealing, taking, and carrying away, five
turnips from a field inclosed, in the parish of
Ashton, the property of one Humphry Jones, without
his leave and consent.”
“Five turnips! (exclaimed she,) and
will you send this poor lad to prison for so trifling an offence?”
“Will I?—aye, and for half a turnip
too.”
“You do not properly consider this
matter, Miss Overbury, (said Mrs. Butterfield.) If the venal laws were not duly
put in force, there would be no living for such pretty rogues. Besides, we
magistrates are obliged to do our duty.”
It is here to be observed, that Mrs.
Butterfield actually considered herself as much a magistrate as her husband,
and it is still a query with those well acquainted with the family, whether she
were not more so. During this eloquent speech, Charlotte recognized the name of
Sanders with a very interesting emotion, and, going instantly out of the room,
found the culprit standing in the hall, expecting his fate with trembling
apprehension, of whom she demanded the name of his father.
“William Sanders,” was the reply.
“And what is his occupation?”
“He is a sailor.—It is but a few
weeks since he came home so ill, that he could scarcely reach his journey’s
end. It was on his account, but not with his knowledge, that I did this thing;
for mother had got a bit of mutton to make him some broth, and she said she
wished she had some turnips to make it good. I asked farmer Jones here to give
me a few, knowing he had a great many in his field, but he would not, and I
thought there would be no harm in taking two or three. I don’t mind going to
jail, no, nor being whipped neither, on my own account, so much as the grief it
will be to my poor father;—it will be the death of him.”
Too much affected to make any reply,
Charlotte hastened to the office where Mr. Martin was employed, to whom she
observed, that it would be cruel to commit a poor lad to prison for a first,
and that so trifling, an offence; to which he coolly replied, that the law must
take its course.—“But surely, Mr. Martin, the affair might be compromised. I
will pay for the damage myself sooner than he shall be sent to prison. Here
(taking out her purse,) are five guineas, that is a guinea for each turnip: do,
pray, Sir, take it, and prevail on the prosecutor to release the boy.”
Martin told her that the matter had
gone too far for that, he feared: besides, the farmer loved justice better than
money;—to oblige her, however, he would speak to him, for which she warmly
expressed her thanks. Nothing, however, was farther from his intention than
such a measure;—if it must be so, there were other ways of contriving it, and
the five pieces would as easily slip into his own pocket as that of Jones;
besides, as Charlotte appeared so much interested in the event, it would not be
difficult to procure an augmentation of that sum. He knew Sanders would not
want presence of mind to improve an opportunity of escaping, and therefore
caused the farmer and his party to be invited into the kitchen to a jug of ale,
who, supposing all safe, readily complied. The lad no sooner perceived his
attendants withdrawn, than, concluding all ceremony might be dispensed with, he
prudently took himself out at the front-door, choosing rather to trust to the
swiftness of his heels than the lenity of the magistrate.
The news of this unhandsome retreat
soon reached the parlour, not more to the displeasure of the justice than the
satisfaction of Miss Overbury, who soon after took an opportunity of expressing
her acknowledgements to Mr. Martin, on which he said that he would not have
engaged in such an affair, had it not been purely to have obliged her; that he
had found more difficulty in it than he had expected, for the farmer would not
be prevailed on to listen to terms of pacification under ten guineas.
Charlotte, on this information, readily reimbursed the other five guineas, and
departed with a satisfaction that abundantly rewarded her benevolence.
It was not long, however, before she
obtained an insight into the nature of the case; for, calling one day at Sanders’s cottage, she found the poor lad was compelled to
be an exile from his paternal dwelling; for, though he had luckily escaped the
hand of justice, yet the affair was far from being settled as she had concluded
it was. The circumstance, however, had prudently been concealed from the
father, who now lay on the verge of dissolution. She desired to see him, and,
on drawing near his bedside, tenderly asked how he did. “My bark, you see,
mistress, (returned the honest tar,) has suffered a little by this gale, and,
to say truth, cannot, I think, hold together many hours; but that would not be
a matter of much concern, as I trust there is a good port at hand, were it not
for the thoughts of leaving my poor wife and family.”
“Let not that disquiet you, my good
friend. My brother and I will take care that they shall be comfortably provided
for.”
“Blessings on your heart for this,
young lady. What words of comfort you give a dying man!—but Dick, I fear, will
do himself no good; not but that he is a good lad in the main, though,
unluckily, his mother has put him to a trade which, I doubt, will not do for
him.”
These apprehensions were too well
founded; for Sanders’s wife, burthened with four
children, had gladly embraced an opportunity of placing her son Richard
apprentice to a shoemaker, which occupation was totally inconsistent with a
genius naturally active; hence it happened that Dick was engaged much oftener
at wrestling, foot-ball, &c. than in his shop at the last, which occasioned
heavy complaints on the part of his master, who, in spite of his displeasure,
would often affirm that a more generous open-hearted lad never existed.
“The name of Overbury, (resumed
Charlotte,) has been dear to you. Your family shall have cause to respect it
also. I will take your eldest daughter under my own care, and my brother will
pay so much regard to the memory of an honest seaman as to provide for your son
more suitably to his inclinations. Your wife shall be enabled to bring up the
rest,—thus you may discharge all anxiety on this account.”
The sailor’s heart was full: instead
of words, tears expressed his feelings. In fine, Charlotte, having done every
thing which humanity prompted, returned to the Priory, and the next morning was
informed that Will Sanders had breathed his last. Soon after, pursuant to her
promise, she took the eldest girl to wait on herself, and also furnished the
widow with a sum of money to set herself in a small way of business with her
younger children. As for Richard, she deemed it best to leave him in his
present situation till her brother’s return, very properly supposing that his
feelings on the occasion would prove a salutary reprehension for his fault.
C H A P. XVII.
Pride and Pedantry exemplified.
AT length, the young
gentleman, for whose arrival Mrs. Butterfield had been long impatient, appeared
at the Priory. Mr. Arthur Butterfield had not received from nature any great portion
of personal elegance. His stature was considerably above the common size, yet
one would be apt to conclude him no ways satisfied with the superiority, as he
appeared desirous of sinking to the ordinary standard of height by a remarkable
stoop of the head, by which means his shoulders exhibited a rotundity not
altogether consistent with our ideas of a graceful figure. His complexion was
sallow, nor was there any part of his face that bore the least approximation to
beauty, except the eyes: these indeed were black and sparkling, but most
maliciously concealed, as much as could be, by the envy of a pair of
protuberant cheek-bones. Little as this gentleman may be supposed indebted to
nature, he was determined to owe still less to art, by manifesting, on all
occasions, an utter disregard of those minutiæ which
are allowed to embellish a handsome face, and to improve a plain one. He was,
in fact, a sloven in dress, not so much from
insensibility to those things as from pride. His natural abilities being, at best,
but very mediocre, he had gone to the university a blockhead, and returned a
pedant, consequently deemed it beneath the dignity of literature to stoop to
external trifles. During his residence at college, he had certainly merited the
reputation of a diligent student; but his mental ability proving too weak to
digest the substance of so many ponderous volumes, it is supposed that the
heterogeneous matter, lodging in the pericranium, in
defect of sufficient force to promote due concoction, had degenerated to a mere
calx, the dry particles of which, affecting the optic
nerve, produced at length that kind of malady in which the patient is incapable
of discerning the most obvious degree of merit in another, at the same time he
supposes no ordinary portion of it to be centered in
himself. In other words, Mr. Arthur Butterfield was proud, conceited, and
pedantic, a coalition of qualities infallibly adapted to inspire the ridicule
and contempt of mankind. The chance, therefore, which he stood of acquiring the
affections of Miss Overbury will, without much difficulty, be easily computed,
who, not entertaining the remotest suspicion of Mrs. Butterfield’s long
meditated scheme, considered him as one, whose good or ill qualities could not
be an interesting object to her, and therefore, though probably disgusted with
his manner, thought civility to the family obliged her to conceal any secret
contempt she might feel towards the heir of it. Some days after his arrival,
the sagacious mother deemed it high time to set her plan in motion, and,
seizing a convenient opportunity, accosted him with, “Well, son Arthur, I
should be glad to know how you have passed your time at college.”
“In academical
pursuits you may be sure, madam.”
“Aye, to be sure, economical pursuits.—Greek and Hebrew, I
suppose. Very right! You will be a justice of the Quorum, and such things will
be useful to help you to know the laws of your country; but, besides all that,
a young man has other pursuits sometimes, Atty. What
particular lady have you paid your court to?”
“The Muses, madam, have received my
principal devoirs.”
“I am sorry to hear that;—bad women,
son, will bring a man to ruin.”
“You misunderstand me, mother. I
mean only the liberal sciences.”
“That is well; because I must tell
you I have looked out a wife for you,—one to whom you can make no objection.”
“Indeed, madam, as much devoted as I
am to philosophy, I have no mind to exercise my patience by the example of
Socrates. We men of letters are apt to consider a wife as a disagreeable incumbrance.”
“Incumbrance, sirrah! Let me tell you that your father well knows a good
wife to be no incumbrance.”
“Dear mother, do not be offended. I
only mean that a single life leaves us more at liberty to pursue our favourite
studies. I confess I have no inclination to marriage, yet, to oblige you and my
father, I may perhaps consent, provided the lady is to my taste.”
“I’ll tell you what, Arthur, the Butterfields are a good old modern family, and it is your
duty to take care that the name be not distinct. You can have no objection to
the person I recommend, since it is no other than your father’s ward, and a
fine girl she certainly is.”
“As to personal advantages (with a
supercilious indifference,) we, who are accustomed to abstruse studies, do not
make those an object of attention. Provided a woman is properly domesticated,
and knows how to observe a proper distance towards her husband, we are anxious
for no more.”
“I will engage she will leave you to
your obtuse studies; but the main point is, that she will have as good as
thirty thousand pounds to her fortune; therefore I hope you will not miss the
opportunity which I have taken so much pains to procure you.”
“I shall take occasion to consider
the lady more attentively, and, if I find her deserving, I may perhaps
condescend to the measure, though I assure you, madam, I consider the affair of
matrimony rather as a point of duty than choice,—a step which, with regard to
moral fitness, may be proper, but in respect of inclination not at all
desirable.”
Satisfied with this acquiescence,
Mrs. Butterfield left him to determine the precise plan of procedure, which he
resolved should be conducted on philosophical principles.—Love was a passion,
he thought, could only govern women and fools, it was therefore beneath the
dignity of wisdom to affect it, or to flatter the natural vanity of the weaker
sex so far as to suffer them to suppose a wise man’s happiness could depend on
them; yet, in order that the lady might not be altogether ignorant of the
favour he designed her, he would often present her with the finest fruit at the
desert, or, if walking in the garden, present her with a nosegay. These were
all the direct intimations he thought proper to give of his passion, but he had
also another mode of shewing his regard, not quite so intelligible, which was
that of contradicting her humour on all occasions, as a specimen of which we
will, from a variety of such incidents, select the following.
Charlotte’s conduct towards the
widow and family of poor Sanders was of a nature not to be long concealed. The
whole neighbourhood resounded with applause of that beneficent action. To Mr.
Arthur Butterfield was reserved the glory of proving it the result of a
principle very opposite to that which the world generally supposed. He very
freely told her such liberality was nothing more than selfish gratification.
“Examine your own heart, (said he;) say, what were your feelings on that
occasion?”
“Such (answered she) as I think the
trifling sum I bestowed well employed in purchasing.”
“Why, that confession demonstrates
the truth of my preposition;—you bestow on the indigent purely to gratify a
thirst of pleasure.”
“I suppose then you would have one
resist the best impulses of the heart out of mere self-denial.”
“When, as in this case, they spring
from a selfish motive, it is virtue to resist them.”
“Do you call that a selfish motive
which prompts us to the alleviating the miseries of a fellow-creature.”
“I say that the merit of all the
melting hearted tribe is not worth a rush, since you all confess yourselves
more than repaid in the luxury of your own feelings.”
“Back to thy tub, thou surly Diogenes! (cried she, laughing,) and leave me to taste the
pleasures which reason and nature scatter in my way.”
Here, with a look of ineffable
disdain, he reiterated, “Diogenes!—What a lamentable
circumstance, madam, is it, that your sex should always be aiming to soar above
their sphere. If you knew how unsuitably the wrinkles of study sit on your
brows, you would be inclined to leave it to us, who are better adapted to such
pursuits.”
“Since, my good friend, (with an
ironical air,) you seem to think ignorance the brightest of all feminine
accomplishments, I trust you will not deny me all pretensions thereto, as it is
possible that a woman may know something of the name and character of Diogenes without breaking into the stores of learned lore.”
“True; but, as you find yourselves
compelled to receive this sort of information at second hand, it certainly
would become you better to let those subjects entirely alone.—Your heads,
madam, are not formed for those things.”
“Of all the cants (interrupted she,
stealing a little from Sterne) which are canted in
this canting world, the cant of pedantry is most insupportable.”
Sometimes he would interrupt her on
the most trivial subjects, with refutations borrowed from the Berkleian system, to which he was a zealous convert. He
would tell her that external bodies had no real existence, and teaze her for half an hour together with arguments drawn
from that ideal philosophy, all which she generally cut short by some sprightly
repartee, without giving herself the trouble to express the perfect contempt
she entertained of his character.—At these kind of rencontres
Mrs. Butterfield was frequently present, secretly congratulating herself on the
abilities of her son, who, she was certain, was hourly gaining ground in
Charlotte’s esteem. Often, with a smile of delight, she would whisper the
justice, “Atty will gain the day at last. I am sure
it is impossible for any girl to withstand him. I can see she is over head and
ears in love with him already.”
C H A P. XVIII.
Unexpected Intelligence.
SUCH was the posture
of affairs at the Priory, when Miss Overbury received the pleasing intelligence
of her brother’s ship being arrived at Spithead, and
some days after received from him the following letter, though the contents of
it were not perfectly agreeable to her expectations.
“My dear sister,
Though it is now six years since we
have seen each other, yet I hope you have not forgot you have a brother. It
were to be wished that his circumstances at this time were such as could cause
you to remember him with pleasure; but a sailor’s life, you know, Charlotte, is
exposed to a thousand accidents which landmen are
secure from; it may not then, perhaps, surprise you to find me in a condition
to solicit your assistance; for, though at sea we have small occasion for l’argent, and certainly care as little about it as any
people in the world, yet in port there is no doing without the needful.—The
accident by which I have lost my fortune, and am compelled to apply to you,
shall hereafter be explained by
Your
affectionate brother,
JOHN OVERBURY.”
This epistle (the postcript of which contained his address) Charlotte ran to
present to Mrs. Butterfield, exclaiming, at the same time, “Jack, my dear Jack,
is arrived!” and then dropt lifeless on the floor. As soon however, as she was
recovered, Mrs. Butterfield, having read the letter, returned it to her,
saying, “I see no reason you have to be so overjoyed, Miss Overbury, at the
captain’s return, since he has reduced himself to this plight. Five and twenty
thousand pounds, all sunk in wenches, I suppose, at every port he came to!”
This being a suggestion which had
never entered the mind of the young lady, she hastily replied, “I cannot suffer
myself to suppose he has dissipated it by any improper methods. A too
benevolent or unsuspecting disposition, or else unexpected misfortune, has——”
“Be that as it may, (interrupting
her,) it is a pretty story, indeed, that he should expect any assistance from
you: he ought to take the consequences of his own folly. Let him go to sea
again, for I do not know what he should do at home in this case.”
To this charitable strain Charlotte
deemed no reply necessary;—immediately quitting the room, she went in search of
her guardian, and, having briefly acquainted him with the misfortunes of her
brother, desired he would be so kind as to advance her a hundred pounds of her
next year’s salary.
“A hundred pounds!—Odd zooks, for what?—to fling away upon a spendthrift. I hope
you know better, child, than to think of such a thing.”
She doubted not, (she replied,) but
that her brother had met with some of those adverse accidents which are too
often the fate of the best people; but, by what means
soever the misfortune had happened, it was both her duty and inclination to
assist him.”
“You young people (resumed the
magistrate) are wonderfully generous before you know the value of money: but I
shall at this time prevent your imprudence, by assuring you, at once, that I
will not advance a single shilling.”
Poor Charlotte, both disappointed
and chagrined, now felt herself in a painful dilemma. Her disposition too
strongly inclined to liberality to allow her the hoarding any considerable part
of her stipend, and at this time her pecuniary store did not exceed ten
guineas. Her friend, Eliza, she knew had it not in her power to assist her.
After some consideration, she resolved on applying to Mr. Martin, though, for
recent observations, he was certainly the last whom she would have preferred on
the occasion. However, it was her dernier resource,
and she immediately went to his house, where, having made known the purport of
her visit, the attorney, after a short pause, told her he was extremely sorry,
but really he had not such a sum by him.
“Perhaps you have forty or fifty by
you. It is only for a present occasion, and, as my usual stipend will become
due in a fortnight, I should then repay it with gratitude.”
Mr. Martin declared he had not ten
guineas in the house, and very politely opened the door of his office for her
to withdraw.—That instant appeared the attorney’s lady, who, to say truth, had
been indulging a little innocent curiosity at the key-hole of the door. With
extraordinary civility she pressed her to sit a few minutes in the parlour,
where the conversation was so properly managed, that Charlotte readily
disclosed the nature of her distress, which indeed the other had contrived to
understand before.
“I know (replied Mrs. Martin) that
my husband at present is short of cash, but I would not for the world so
charming an impulse of benevolence should be checked, and therefore I will
myself endeavour to procure for you such a sum of a neighbour.”
“Will you be so obliging, madam?”
“Most willingly. Call on me in about
half an hour, and I hope things will be settled to your mind.”
Charlotte was no sooner gone, than
Mrs. Martin stated the affair so clearly to her husband, that he was induced to
fetch forty guineas from his scrutoire. “If I did not
confide in thy prudence, Bet, (said he, on giving them to her,) I would not
entrust thee with such a sum. Be sure, you baggage, you order things properly,
or——”
“Leave me alone for that. What! I
warrant I know how to manage a thoughtless young mad-cap before this time of
day.”
At the appointed time, Miss Overbury
returned, and, as her thoughts were entirely occupied by the business in hand,
her first interrogatory was, whether Mrs. Martin had procured the money.
“I have, with much difficulty, my
dear; and, had it been on my own account, I do not think I could have had the
courage to have been so importunate as I have been; but, to accommodate Miss
Overbury, what is there I would not do?”
“You infinitely oblige me, my dear
madam. I will give you a note payable in a fortnight.”
“Pshaw! what signifies a note
between friends; yet, as I see your delicate scruples will not be satisfied
without that ceremony, I will humour them for once.”
She then wrote a promissory-note,
the form of which she had just received from her husband; but, instead of
forty, inserted the words fifty guineas, which Charlotte, in the ardour of her
impatience, signed without looking over, and then departed with proper
acknowledgments.—We will stop here to observe, that, within three weeks after
this occurrence, Miss Overbury carried the forty guineas to the donor, who,
affecting surprise, produced the note for fifty. “There must have been a
mistake, madam; I had only forty.” Mrs. Martin at these words, with most
astonishing effrontery, began to express both concern and resentment at the
thoughts of being deemed capable of such a conduct,—threw out some reflections
on the return she was likely to meet for her friendship, &c. when
Charlotte, though convinced of her duplicity, in order to avoid altercation,
put the specific sum on the table, flung her note into the fire, and departed,
resolving to be more frugal in future, and dreading those pecuniary straits
which could put her in the power of avarice and dishonesty.
But to return.—
Charlotte, together with as large a
sum as she could raise on the occasion, dispatched the following letter to her
brother.
“Your misfortunes, my dear Jack, affect
me no otherwise than as they have been the subject of pain to yourself. It is
impossible that the loss of fortune can lessen my affection for you. I know not
if I am not even gratified by the circumstance, since an opportunity is thereby
afforded me of testifying the sincerity of my love. The little pittance I here
present is all in my power to do at present; but the time is not far off (would
it were now arrived!) when I will convince the best of brothers that I despise
a good which he does not share;—in other words, we will divide the fortune
bequeathed me by our dear deceased father.—But have you unkindly resolved to
leave England without giving me an opportunity of seeing you?—Tell me, my ever
beloved brother, where I shall find you, that I may fly on the wings of
sisterly affection to enjoy your company, if but for one half hour. Do not deny
me this happiness, which so long has been impatiently desired by
Your
affectionate
CHARLOTTE.”
To this letter Miss Overbury, by
return of post, received the following reply.
“Pardon me, my dearest sister, if,
although I came to England prepared to shew you the true affection of a
brother, I yet endeavoured by this trial of your temper to find a proper basis
for that kind of esteem which is not found always between persons so nearly
related.—The success of my experiment exceeds even my expectation. You are a
noble girl, Charlotte, and henceforth I shall glory in my sister. I am happy in
telling you that my distress was only feigned, in order to make full trial of
your disposition. My fortune is rather augmented than otherwise, and that as
well as life itself, if requisite, shall ever be sincerely devoted to my dear
Charlotte by
Her
affectionate brother,
JOHN OVERBURY.”
Eager to wipe every unfavourable aspersion from the
character of her brother, Charlotte hastened to unfold the contents of his
letter to Mrs. Butterfield, who, assuming a smile of good humour, cried, “Well,
I declare, this is the pleasantest joke;—the matter is just as I thought it. I
had too good an opinion of the dear captain to believe his case could be as bad
as you concluded.—Charming fellow! send him word this instant that we long to
see him at the Priory’
“I think, my dear, (said Mr.
Butterfield,) it would look better if I were to do it.”
“No, (returned she hastily;) it
would look better if I were to do it. You know, Mr. Butterfield, you are
nothing at all at a pen.”
“No, truly; I do not practise it
child, for I think you have not permitted me to send a line out of my own house
these twenty years.”
“And are you not obliged to me for
taking pains that you may not repose
yourself? Letter-writing requires a great deal of labour and study I assure
you.”
“Pardon me, madam, (said Charlotte,)
I have always been told that familiar letters should bear nothing of this
tincture.”
“Those who told you so did not
understand it. I have wrote a cart-load of letters in my time, and I assure you
they were always admired for expressing the confusions
of the mind.”
Charlotte, not to offend by
discovering a smile which it was impossible to repress, retired, and Mrs.
Butterfield sat down at her writing-desk, where, after having scratched and
blotted two sheets and a half of paper, she produced in about a couple of hours
this finished epistle.
“Dear Captain,
We are all contaminated with the most deleterious feelings, at hearing you are
safely returned to England. We should not do justice to the great affection we
bear you as the predecessor of
that worthy man your father, did we not desire you to consider Ashton Priory as
your home, as long as you shall remain in England. You must be assured we are
very desirous of having you constantly at home with us, and therefore hope that
some happy she will so pre-engage
your affections, that the preceding
part of your life will be spent in a state less concoctious to danger than that
which is past. I dare say you are not at a loss to misconstrue my meaning.—We all join in hoping a few days
will bring you to the Priory, and I beg you to believe me, dear Sir,
Your
most obstreperous
And
most devout humble servant,
A. BUTTERFIELD.”
“What do you think of my letter?”
said the lady to her husband, with a self-applauding smile.
“I dare say, sweeting,
it is vastly clever, though I cannot pretend to say I understand much of it.”
“How should you?—You know nothing of
fine writing; but did you observe the hint I gave respecting matrimony? Was it
not dexterously brought in?”
“To be sure; but I should have
thought it time enough for that.”
“You should have thought!—People who
know how to express themselves, with proporiety, may
say fifty things which another durst not touch on, because they do not know how
to skim the subject as one may say; for instance, now, if some folks had been
to write on such a matter, they would have said downright, I design you shall
marry my daughter;—but you see how I have managed it, eh!
“Yes, love, I zee it. But pray, now
we are talking of them there things, how does Atty’s
affair go on? Does her give him any encouragement?”
“As much as a prudent young woman
ought to do. They are ever at cross purposes, and, when he comes near her, she
puts on a frown, which you know was the very manner of my shewing my regard to
you.”
“True, my dear, and, like a good wife,
you continue these tokens of fondness to this present day.”
As it may not be necessary to pursue
this matrimonial tête-à-tête
farther, we will leave the justice and his lady to themselves, only observing
that the latter, seeing every thing just in train as she could wish, resolved
to have some discourse with her daughter, the substance of which will appear in
the following chapter.
E N D OF V O L. I.