“Oh, a thousand, thousand thanks!” cried Angelina: “tell me, where can I find her?”
“Are you acquainted with her? You seem to be a stranger, young lady, in Bristol. Are you acquainted with Miss Hodges’s whole history?”
“Yes, her whole history; every feeling of her soul; every thought of her mind!” cried Angelina, with enthusiasm. “We have corresponded for two years past.”
Mrs. Porett smiled. “It is not always possible,” said she, “to judge of ladies by their letters. I am not inclined to believe above half what the world says, according to Lord Chesterfield’s allowance for scandalous stories; but it may be necessary to warn you, as you seem very young, that—”
“Madam,” cried Angelina, “young as I am, I know that superior genius and virtue are the inevitable objects of scandal. It is in vain to detain me further.”
“I am truly sorry for it,” said Mrs. Porett; “but, perhaps, you will allow me to tell you, that—”
“No, not a word; not a word more will I hear,” cried our heroine; and she hurried out of the house, and threw herself into the coach. Mrs. Porett contrived, however, to make Betty Williams hear, that the most probable means of gaining any intelligence of Miss Hodges, would be to inquire for her at the shop of Mr. Beatson, who was her printer. To Mr. Beatson’s they drove — though Betty professed that she was half unwilling to inquire for Miss Hodges from any one whose name did not begin with a p, and end with a t.
“What a pity it is,” said Mrs. Porett, when she returned to her pupils—”what a pity it is that this young lady’s friends should permit her to go about in a hackney-coach, with such a strange, vulgar servant girl as that! She is too young to know how quickly, and often how severely, the world judges by appearances. Miss Hope, now we talk of appearances, you forget that your gown is torn, and you do not know, perhaps, that your friend, Lady Frances Somerset—”
“Lady Frances Somerset!” cried Clara Hope—”I love to hear her very name.”
“For which reason you interrupt me the moment I mention it — I have a great mind not to tell you — that Lady Frances Somerset has invited you to go to the play with her to-night:—’The Merchant of Venice, and the Adopted Child.’”
“Gude-natured Lady Frances Somerset, I’m sure an’ if Clara Hope had been your adopted child twenty times over, you could not have been more kind to her nor you have been. — No, not had she been your are countrywoman, and of your are clan — and all for the same reasons that make some neglect and look down upon her — because Clara is not meikle rich, and is far away from her ane ane friends. — Gude Lady Frances Somerset! Clara Hope luves you in her heart, and she’s as blythe wi’ the thought o’ ganging to see you as if she were going to dear Inverary.”
It is a pity, for the sake of our story, that Miss Warwick did not stay a few minutes longer at Mrs. Porett’s, that she might have heard this eulogium on Lady Frances Somerset, and might have, a second time in one day, discovered that she was on the very brink of meeting with the persons she most dreaded to see; but, however temptingly romantic such an incident would have been, we must, according to our duty as faithful historians, deliver a plain unvarnished tale.
Miss Warwick arrived at Mr. Beatson’s, and as soon as she had pronounced the name of Hodges, the printer called to his devil for a parcel of advertisements, which he put into her hand; they were proposals for printing by subscription a new novel—”The Sorrows of Araminta.”
“Oh, my Araminta! my amiable Araminta! have I found you at last? — The Sorrows of Araminta, a novel, in nine volumes — Oh, charming! — together with a tragedy on the same plan — Delightful! — Subscriptions received at Joseph Beatson’s, printer and bookseller; and by Rachael Hodges — Odious name! — at Mrs. Bertrand’s.”
“Bartrand! — There now you, do ye hear that? the lady lives at Mrs. Bartrand’s: how will you make out now that Bartrand begins with a p, and ends with a t, now?” said the hackney-coachman to Betty, who was standing at the door.
“Pertrant! why,” cried Betty, “what would you have?”
“Silence! O silence!” said Miss Warwick; and she continued reading—”Subscriptions received at Mrs. Bertrand’s.”
“Pertrant, you hear, plockhead, you Irishman!” cried Betty Williams.
“Bartrand — you have no ears, Welshwoman as you are!” retorted Terence O’Grady.
“Subscription two guineas, for the Sorrows of Araminta,” continued our heroine; but, looking up, she saw Betty Williams and the hackney-coachman making menacing faces and gestures at one another.
“Fight it out in the passage, for Heaven’s sake!” said Angelina; “if you must fight, fight out of my sight.”
“For shame, before the young lady!” said Mr. Beatson, holding the hackney-coachman: “have done disputing so loud.”
“I’ve done, but she is wrong,” cried Terence.
“I’ve done, put he is wrong,” said Betty.
Terence was so much provoked by the Welshwoman, that he declared he would not carry her a step further in his coach — that his beasts were tired, and that he must be paid his fare, for that he neither could nor would wait any longer. Betty Williams was desired by Angelina to pay him. She hesitated; but after being assured by Miss Warwick that the debt should be punctually discharged in a few hours, she acknowledged that she had silver enough “in a little box at the bottom of her pocket;” and, after much fumbling, she pulled out a snuff-box, which, she said, had been given to her by her “creat crandmother.” — Whilst she was paying the coachman, the printer’s devil observed one end of a piece of lace hanging out of her pocket; she had, by accident, pulled it out along with the snuff-box.
“And was this your great grandmother’s too?” said the printer’s devil, taking hold of the lace.
Betty started. Angelina was busy, making inquiries from the printer, and she did not see or hear what was passing close to her: the coachman was intent upon the examination of his shillings. Betty, with great assurance, reproved the printer’s devil for touching such lace with his plack fingers.
“’Twas not my Grandmother’s—’tis the young lady’s,” said she: “let it pe, pray — look how you have placked it, and marked it, with plack fingers.”
She put the stolen lace hastily into her pocket, and immediately went out, as Miss Warwick desired, to call another coach.
Before we follow our heroine to Mrs. Bertrand’s, we must beg leave to go, and, if we can, to transport our readers with us, to Lady Frances Somerset’s house, at Clifton.
CHAPTER IV.
“Well, how I am to get up this hill again, Heaven knows!” said Lady Diana Chillingworth, who had been prevailed upon to walk down Clifton Hill to the Wells. “Heigho! that sister of mine, Lady Frances, walks, and talks, and laughs, and admires the beauties of nature till I’m half dead.”
“Why, indeed, Lady Frances Somerset, I must allow,” said Miss Burrage, “is not the fittest companion in the world for a person of your ladyship’s nerves; but then it is to be hoped that the glass of water which you have just taken fresh at the pump will be of service, provided the racketing to Bristol to the play don’t counteract it, and undo all again.”
“How I dread going into that Bristol playhouse!” said Miss Burrage to herself—”some of my precious relations may be there to claim me. My aunt Dinah — God bless her for a starched quaker — wouldn’t be seen at a play, I’m sure — so she’s safe; — but the odious sugar-baker’s daughters might be there, dizened out; and between the acts, their great tall figures might rise in judgment against me — spy me out — stare and curtsy — pop — pop — pop at me without mercy, or bawl out across the benches, ‘Cousin Burrage! Cousin Burrage!’ And Lady Diana Chillingworth to hear it! — oh, I should sink into the earth.”
“What amusement,” continued Miss Burrage, addressing herself to Lady Di., “what amusement Lady Frances Somerset can find at a Bristol playhouse, and at this time of the year too, is to me really unaccountable.”
“Half dead, my dear! well, here is something to bring you to life again,” said Lady Frances: “I do believe I have found out Miss Warwick.”
“I am sure, my dear, that does not revive me — I’ve been almost plagued to death with her already,” said Lady Diana.
“There’s no living in this world without plagues of some sort or other — but the pleasure of doing good makes one forget them all: here, look at this advertisement, my dear,” said Lady Frances: “a gentleman, whom I have just met with in the pump-room, was reading it in the newspaper when I came in, and a whole knot of scandal-mongers were settling who it could possibly be. One snug little man, a Welsh curate, I believe, was certain it was the bar-maid of an inn at Bath, who is said to have inveigled a young nobleman into matrimony. I left the Welshman in the midst of a long story, about his father and a young lady, who lost her shoe on the Welsh mountains, and I ran away with the paper to bring it to you.”
Lady Diana received the paper with an air of reluctance.
“Was not I very fortunate to meet with it?” said Lady Frances.
“I protest I see no good fortune in the business, from beginning to end.”
“Ah, because you are not come to the end yet — look—’tis from Mrs. Hoel, of the inn at Cardiffe, and by the date, she must have been there last week.”
“Who — Mrs. Hoel?”
“Miss Warwick, my dear — I beg pardon for my pronoun — but do read this — eyes — hair — complexion — age — size — it certainly must be Miss Warwick.”
“And what then?” said Lady Di, with provoking coldness, walking on towards home.
“Why, then, my dear, you know we can go to Cardiffe to-morrow morning, find the poor girl, and, before any body knows any thing of the matter, before her reputation is hurt, or you blamed, before any harm can happen, convince the girl of her folly and imprudence, and bring her back to you and common sense.”
“To common sense, and welcome, if you can; but not to me.”
“Not to you! — Nay; but, my dear, what will become of her?”
“Nay; but, my dear Frances, what will the world say?”
“Of her?”
“Of me.”
“My dear Di., shall I tell you what the world would say?”
“No, Lady Frances, I’ll tell you what the world would say — that Lady Diana Chillingworth’s house was an asylum for runaways.”
“An asylum for nonsense! — I beg your pardon, sister — but it always provokes me to see a person afraid to do what they think right, because, truly, ‘the world will say it is wrong.’ What signifies the uneasiness we may suffer from the idle blame or tittle-tattle of the day, compared with the happiness of a young girl’s whole life, which is at stake?”
“Oh, Lady Frances, that is spoken like yourself — I love you in my heart — that’s right! that’s right!” thought Clara Hope.
Lady Diana fell back a few paces, that she might consult one whose advice she always found agreeable to her own opinions.
“In my opinion,” whispered Miss Burrage to Lady Diana, “you are right, quite right, to have nothing more to do with the happiness of a young lady who has taken such a step.”
They were just leaving St. Vincent’s parade, when they heard the sound of music upon the walk by the river side, and they saw a little boy there, seated at the foot of a tree, playing on the guitar, and singing —
“J’ai quitté mon pays et mes amis, Pour jouer de la guitare, Qui va clin, clin, qui va clin, clin, Qui va clin, clin, clin, clin.”
“Ha! my wee wee friend,” said Clara Hope, “are you here? — I was just thinking of you, just wishing for you. By gude luck, have you the weeny locket about you that the young lady gave you this morning? — the weeny locket, my bonny boy?”
“Plait-il?” said little Louis.
“He don’t understand one word,” said Miss Burrage, laughing sarcastically, “he don’t understand one word of all your bonnys, and wee wees and weenies, Miss Hope; he, unfortunately, don’t understand broad Scotch, and maybe he mayn’t be so great a proficient as you are in boarding-school French; but I’ll try if he can understand me, if you’ll tell me what you want.”
“Such a trinket as this,” said Clara, showing a locket which hung from her neck.
“Ah oui — yes, I comprehend now,” cried the boy, taking from his coat-pocket a small case of trinkets—”la voilà! — here is vat de young lady did give me — good young lady!” said Louis, and he produced the locket.
“I declare,” exclaimed Miss Burrage, catching hold of it, “’tis Miss Warwick’s locket! I’m sure of it — here’s the motto — I’ve read it, and laughed at it twenty times — L’Amie Inconnue.”
“When I heard you all talking just now about that description of the young lady in the newspaper, I cude not but fancy,” said Clara Hope, “that the lady whom I saw this morning must be Miss Warwick.”
“Saw — where?” cried Lady Frances, eagerly.
“At Bristol — at our academy — at Mrs. Porett’s,” said Clara; “but mark me, she is not there now — I do not ken where she may be now.”
“Moi je sais! — I do know de demoiselle did stop in a coach at one house; I was in de street — I can show you de house.”
“Can you so, my good little fellow? then let us begone directly,” said Lady Frances.
“You’ll excuse me, sister,” said Lady Di.
“Excuse you! — I will, but the world will not. You’ll be abused, sister, shockingly abused.”
This assertion made more impression upon Lady Di. Chillingworth than could have been made either by argument or entreaty.
“One really does not know how to act — people take so much notice of every thing that is said and done by persons of a certain rank: if you think that I shall be so much abused — I absolutely do not know what to say.”
“But I thought,” interposed Miss Burrage, “that Lady Frances was going to take you to the play to-night, Miss Hope?”
“Oh, never heed the play — never heed the play, or Clara Hope — never heed taking me to the play: Lady Frances is going to do a better thing. — Come on, my bonny boy,” said she to the little French boy, who was following them.
We must now return to our heroine, whom we left on her way to Mrs. Bertrand’s. Mrs. Bertrand kept a large confectionary and fruit shop in Bristol.
“Please to walk through this way, ma’am — Miss Hodges is above stairs — she shall be apprized directly — Jenny! run up stairs,” said Mrs. Bertrand to her maid—”run up stairs, and tell Miss Hodges here’s a young lady wants to see her in a great hurry — You’d best sit down, ma’am,” continued Mrs. Bertrand to Angelina, “till the girl has been up with the message.”
“Oh, my Araminta! how my heart beats!” exclaimed Miss Warwick.
“How my mouth waters!” cried Betty Williams, looking round at the fruit and confectionaries.
“Would you, ma’am, be pleased,” said Mrs. Bertrand, “to take a glass of ice this warm evening? cream-ice, or water-ice, ma’am? pine-apple or strawberry ice?” As she spoke, Mrs. Bertrand held a salver, covered with ices, toward Miss Warwick: but, apparently, she thought that it was not consistent with the delicacy of friendship to think of eating or drinking when she was thus upon the eve of her first interview with her Araminta. Betty Williams, who was of a different nature from our heroine, saw the salver recede with excessive surprise and regret; she stretched out her hand after it, and seized a glass of raspberry-ice; but no sooner had she tasted it than she made a frightful face, and let the glass fall, exclaiming —
“Pless us! ’tis not as good as cooseherry fool.”
Mrs. Bertrand next offered her a chees
ecake, which Betty ate voraciously.
“She’s actually a female Sancho Panza!” thought Angelina: her own more striking resemblance to the female Quixote never occurred to our heroine — so blind are we to our own failings.
“Who is the young lady?” whispered the mistress of the fruit shop to Betty Williams, whilst Miss Warwick was walking — we should say pacing — up and down the room, in anxious solicitude, and evident agitation.
“Hur’s a young lady,” replied Betty, stopping to take a mouthful of cheesecake between every member of her sentence, “a young lady — that has — lost hur—”
“Her heart — so I thought.”
“Hur purse!” said Betty, with an accent, which showed that she thought this the more serious loss of the two.
“Her purse! — that’s bad indeed: — you pay for your own cheesecake and raspberry-ice, and for the glass that you broke,” said Mrs. Bertrand.
“Put hur has a great deal of money in hur trunk, I pelieve, at Llanwaetur,” said Betty.
“Surely Miss Hodges does not know I am here,” cried Miss Warwick—”her Angelina!”
“Ma’am, she’ll be down immediately, I do suppose,” said Mrs. Bertrand. “What was it you pleased called for — angelica, ma’am, did you say? At present we are quite out, I’m ashamed to say, of angelica, ma’am — Well, child,” continued Mrs. Bertrand to her maid, who was at this moment seen passing by the back door of the shop in great haste.
“Ma’am — anan,” said the maid, turning back her cap from off her ear.
“Anan! deaf doll! didn’t you hear me tell you to tell Miss Hodges a lady wanted to speak to her in a great hurry?”
“No, mam,” replied the girl, who spoke in the broad Somersetshire dialect: “I heard you zay, up to Miss Hodges; zoo I thought it was the bottle o’brandy, and zoo I took alung with the tea-kettle — but I’ll go up again now, and zay miss bes in a hurry, az she zays.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 385
