“Brandy!” repeated Miss Warwick, on whom the word seemed to make a great impression.
“Pranty, ay, pranty,” repeated Betty Williams—”our Miss Hodges always takes pranty in her teas at Llanwaetur.”
“Brandy! — then she can’t be my Araminta.”
“Oh, the very same, and no other; you are quite right, ma’am,” said Mrs. Bertrand, “if you mean the same that is publishing the novel, ma’am,—’The Sorrows of Araminta’ — for the reason I know so much about it is, that I take in the subscriptions, and distributed the purposals.”
Angelina had scarcely time to believe or disbelieve what she heard, before the maid returned, with “Mam, Mizz Hodges haz hur best love to you, mizz — and please to walk up — There be two steps; please to have a care, or you’ll break your neck.”
Before we introduce Angelina to her “unknown friend,” we must relate the conversation which was actually passing between the amiable Araminta and her Orlando, whilst Miss Warwick was waiting in the fruit shop. Our readers will be so good as to picture to themselves a woman, with a face and figure which seemed to have been intended for a man, with a voice and gesture capable of setting even man, “imperial man,” at defiance — such was Araminta. She was, at this time, sitting cross-legged in an arm-chair at a tea-table, on which, beside the tea equipage, was a medley of things of which no prudent tongue or pen would undertake to give a correct inventory. At the feet of this fair lady, kneeling on one knee, was a thin, subdued, simple-looking quaker, of the name of Nathaniel Gazabo.
“But now, Natty,” said Miss Hodges, in a voice more masculine than her looks, “you understand the conditions — If I give you my hand, and make you my husband, it is upon condition that you never contradict any of my opinions: do you promise me that?”
“Yea, verily,” replied Nat.
“And you promise to leave me entirely at liberty to act, as well as to think, in all things as my own independent understanding shall suggest?”
“Yea, verily,” was the man’s response.
“And you will be guided by me in all things?”
“Yea, verily.”
“And you will love and admire me all your life, as much as you do now?”
“Yea, verily.”
“Swear,” said the unconscionable woman.
“Nay, verily,” replied the meekest of men, “I cannot swear, my Rachel, being a quaker; but I will affirm.”
“Swear, swear,” cried the lady, in an imperious tone, “or I will never be your Araminta.”
“I swear,” said Nat Gazabo, in a timid voice.
“Then, Natty, I consent to be Mrs. Hodges Gazabo. Only remember always to call me your dear Araminta.”
“My dear Araminta! thus,” said he, embracing her, “thus let me thank thee, my dear Araminta!”
It was in the midst of these thanks that the maid interrupted the well-matched pair, with the news that a young lady was below, who was in a great hurry to see Miss Hodges.
“Let her come,” said Miss Hodges; “I suppose it is only one of the Miss Carvers — Don’t stir, Nat; it will vex her to see you kneeling to me — don’t stir, I say—”
“Where is she? Where is my Araminta?” cried Miss Warwick, as the maid was trying to open the outer passage-door for her, which had a bad lock.
“Get up, get up, Natty; and get some fresh water in the tea-kettle — quick!” cried Miss Hodges, and she began to clear away some of the varieties of literature, &c., which lay scattered about the room. Nat, in obedience to her commands, was making his exit with all possible speed, when Angelina entered, exclaiming —
“My amiable Araminta! — My unknown friend!”
“My Angelina! — My charming Angelina!” cried Miss Hodges.
Miss Hodges was not the sort of person our heroine expected to see; — and to conceal the panic, with which the first sight of her unknown friend struck her disappointed imagination, she turned back to listen to the apologies which Nat Gazabo was pouring forth about his awkwardness and the tea-kettle.
“Turn, Angelina, ever dear!” cried Miss Hodges, with the tone and action of a bad actress who is rehearsing an embrace—”Turn, Angelina, ever dear! — thus, thus let us meet, to part no more.”
“But her voice is so loud,” said Angelina to herself, “and her looks so vulgar, and there is such a smell of brandy! — How unlike the elegant delicacy I had expected in my unknown friend!” Miss Warwick involuntarily shrunk from the stifling embrace.
“You are overpowered, my Angelina — lean on me,” said her Araminta.
Nat Gazabo re-entered with the tea-kettle —
“Here’s boiling water, and we’ll have fresh tea in a trice — the young lady’s over-tired, seemingly — Here’s a chair, miss, here’s a chair,” cried Nat. Miss Warwick sunk upon the chair: Miss Hodges seated herself beside her, continuing to address her in a theatrical tone.
“This moment is bliss unutterable! my kind, my noble-minded Angelina, thus to leave all your friends for your Araminta!” — Suddenly changing her voice—”Set the tea-kettle, Nat!”
“Who is this Nat, I wonder?” thought Miss Warwick.
“Well, and tell me,” said Miss Hodges, whose attention was awkwardly divided between the ceremonies of making tea and making speeches—”and tell me, my Angelina — That’s water enough, Nat — and tell me, my Angelina, how did you find me out?”
“With some difficulty, indeed, my Araminta.” Miss Warwick could hardly pronounce the words.
“So kind, so noble-minded,” continued Miss Hodges—”and did you receive my last letter — three sheets? — And how did you contrive — Stoop the kettle, do, Nat.”
“Oh, this odious Nat! how I wish she would send him away!” thought Miss Warwick.
“And tell me, my Araminta — my Angelina I mean — how did you contrive your elopement — and how did you escape from the eye of your aristocratic Argus — how did you escape from all your unfeeling persecutors? — Tell me, tell me all your adventures, my Angelina! — Butter the toast, Nat,” said Miss Hodges who was cutting bread and butter, which she did not do with the celebrated grace of Charlotte, in the Sorrows of Werter.
“I’ll tell you all, my Araminta,” whispered Miss Warwick, “when we are by ourselves.”
“Oh, never mind Nat,” whispered Miss Hodges.
“Couldn’t you tell him,” rejoined Miss Warwick, “that he need not wait any longer?”
“Wait, my dear! why, what do you take him for?”
“Why, is not he your footman?” whispered Angelina.
“My footman! — Nat!” exclaimed Miss Hodges, bursting out a laughing, “my Angelina took you for my footman.”
“Good heavens! what is he?” said Angelina, in a low voice.
“Verily,” said Nat Gazabo, with a sort of bashful simple laugh, “verily, I am the humblest of her servants.”
“And does my Angelina — spare my delicacy,” said Miss Hodges—”does my Angelina not remember, in any of my long letters, the name of — Orlando! — There he stands.”
“Orlando! — Is this gentleman your Orlando, of whom I have heard so much?”
“He! he! he!” simpered Nat. “I am Orlando, of whom you have heard so much; and she — (pointing to Miss Hodges) — she is, to-morrow morning, God willing, to be Mistress Hodges Gazabo.”
“Mrs. Hodges Gazabo, my Araminta!” said Angelina, with astonishment, which she could not suppress.
“Yes, my Angelina: so end ‘The Sorrows of Araminta’ — Another cup? — do I make the tea too sweet?” said Miss Hodges, whilst Nat handed the bread and butter to the ladies officiously.
“The man looks like a fool,” thought Miss Warwick.
“Set down the bread and butter, and be quiet, Nat — Then, as soon as the wedding is over, we fly, my Angelina, to our charming cottage in Wales: — there may we bid defiance to the storms of fate —
“‘The world forgetting, by the world forgot.’”
“That,” said Angeli
na, “‘is the blameless vestal’s lot:’ — but you forget that you are to be married, my Araminta; and you forget that, in your letter of three folio sheets, you said not one word to me of this intended marriage.”
“Nay, my dear, blame me not for a want of confidence, that my heart disclaims,” said Miss Hodges: “from the context of my letters, you must have suspected the progress my Orlando had made in my affections; but, indeed, I should not have brought myself to decide apparently so precipitately, had it not been for the opposition, the persecution of my friends — I was determined to show them that I know, and can assert, my right to think and act, upon all occasions, for myself.”
Longer, much longer, Miss Hodges, spoke in the most peremptory voice; but whilst she was declaiming on her favourite topic, her Angelina was “revolving in her altered mind” the strange things which she had seen and heard in the course of the last half-hour; every thing appeared to her in a new light; when she compared the conversation and conduct of Miss Hodges with the sentimental letters of her Araminta; when she compared Orlando in description to Orlando in reality, she could scarcely believe her senses: accustomed as she had been to elegance of manners, the vulgarity and awkwardness of Miss Hodges shocked and disgusted her beyond measure. The disorder, and — for the words must be said — slatternly dirty appearance of her Araminta’s dress, and of every thing in her apartment, were such as would have made a hell of heaven; and the idea of spending her life in a cottage with Mrs. Hodges Gazabo and Nat overwhelmed our heroine with the double fear of wretchedness and ridicule.
“Another cup of tea, my Angelina?” said Miss Hodges, when she had finished her tirade against her persecutors, that is to say, her friends, “another cup, my Angelina? — do, after your journey and fatigue, take another cup.”
“No more, I thank you.”
“Then reach me that tragedy, Nat — you know—”
“Your own tragedy, is it, my dear?” said he.
“Ah, Nat, now! you never can keep a secret,” said Miss Hodges. “I wanted to have surprised my Angelina.”
“I am surprised!” thought Angelina—”oh, how much surprised!”
“I have a motto for our cottage here somewhere,” said Miss Hodges, turning over the leaves of her tragedy—”but I’ll keep that till to-morrow — since to-morrow’s the day sacred to love and friendship.”
Nat, by way of showing his joy in a becoming manner, rubbed his hands, and hummed a tune. His mistress frowned, and bit her lips; but the signals were lost upon him, and he sung out, in an exulting tone —
“When the lads of the village so merrily, ah! Sound their tabours, I’ll hand thee along.”
“Fool! Dolt! Idiot!” cried his Araminta, rising furious—”out of my sight!” Then, sinking down upon the chair, she burst into tears, and threw herself into the arms of her pale, astonished Angelina. “Oh, my Angelina!” she exclaimed, “I am the most ill-matched! most unfortunate! most wretched of women!”
“Don’t be frighted, miss,” said Nat; “she’ll come to again presently—’tis only her way.” As he spoke, he poured out a bumper of brandy, and kneeling, presented it to his mistress. “’Tis the only thing in life does her good,” continued he, “in this sort of fits.”
“Heavens, what a scene!” said Miss Warwick to herself—”and the woman so heavy, I can scarce support her weight — and is this my unknown friend?”
How long Miss Hodges would willingly have continued to sob upon Miss Warwick’s shoulder, or how long that shoulder could possibly have sustained her weight, is a mixed problem in physics and metaphysics, which must for ever remain unsolved: but suddenly a loud scream was heard. Miss Hodges started up — the door was thrown open, and Betty Williams rushed in, crying loudly—”Oh, shave me! shave me! for the love of Cot, shave me, miss!” and, pushing by the swain, who held the unfinished glass of brandy in his hand, she threw herself on her knees at the feet of Angelina.
“Gracious me!” exclaimed Nat, “whatever you are, you need not push one so.”
“What now, Betty Williams? is the wench mad or drunk?” cried Miss Hodges.
“We are to have a mad scene next, I suppose,” said Miss Warwick, calmly—”I am prepared for every thing, after what I have seen.”
Betty Williams continued crying bitterly, and wringing her hands—”Oh, shave me this once, miss! ’tis the first thing of the kind I ever tid, inteet, inteet! Oh, shave me this once — I tid not know it was worth so much as a shilling, and that I could be hanged, inteet — and I—”
Here Betty was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Puffit, the milliner, the printer’s devil, and a stern-looking man, to whom Mrs. Puffit, as she came in, said, pointing to Betty Williams and Miss Warwick, “There they are — do your duty, Mr. Constable: I’ll swear to my lace.”
“And I’ll swear to my black thumbs,” said the printer’s devil.
“I saw the lace hanging out of her pocket, and there’s the marks of my fingers upon it, Mr. Constable.”
“Fellow!” cried Miss Hodges, taking the constable by the arm, “this is my apartment, into which no minion of the law has a right to enter; for, in England, every man’s house is his castle.”
“I know that as well as you do, madam!” said the constable; “but I make it a principle to do nothing without a warrant: here’s my warrant.”
“Oh, shave me! the lace is hers inteet!” cried Betty Williams, pointing to Miss Warwick. “Oh, miss is my mistress inteet—”
“Come, mistress or miss, then, you’ll be pleased to come along with me,” said the constable, seizing hold of Angelina—”like mistress, like maid.”
“Villain! unfeeling villain! oh, unhand my Angelina, or I shall die! I shall die!” exclaimed Araminta, falling into the arms of Nat Gazabo, who immediately held the replenished glass of brandy to her lips—”Oh, my Angelina, my Angelina!”
Struck with horror at her situation, Miss Warwick shrunk from the grasp of the constable, and leaned motionless on the back of a chair.
“Come, my angel, as they call you, I think — the lady there has brandy enough, if you want spirits — all the fits and faintings in Christendom won’t serve you now. I’m used to the tricks o’ the trade. — The law must take its course; and if you can’t walk, I must carry you.”
“Touch me at your peril! I am innocent,” said Angelina.
“Innocent — innocence itself! pure, spotless, injured innocence!” cried Miss Hodges. “I shall die! I shall die! I shall die on the spot! barbarous, barbarous villain!”
Whilst Miss Hodges spoke, the ready Nat poured out a fresh glass of that restorative, which he always had ready for cases of life and death; and she screamed and sipped, and sipped and screamed, as the constable took up Angelina in his arms, and carried her towards the door.
“Mrs. Innocence,” said the man, “you shall see whom you shall see.”
Mrs. Puffit opened the door; and, to the utter astonishment of every body present, Lady Diana Chillingworth entered the room, followed by Lady Frances Somerset and Mrs. Bertrand. The constable set down Angelina. Miss Hodges set down the glass of brandy. Mrs. Puffit curtsied. Betty Williams stretched out her arms to Lady Diana, crying, “Shave me! shave me this once!” Miss Warwick hid her face with her hands.
“Only my Valenciennes lace, that has been found in that girl’s pocket, and—” said Mrs. Puffit.
Lady Diana Chillingworth turned away with indescribable haughtiness, and, addressing herself to her sister, said, “Lady Frances Somerset, you would not, I presume, have Lady Diana Chillingworth lend her countenance to such a scene as this — I hope, sister, that you are satisfied now.” As she said these words, her ladyship walked out of the room.
“Never was further from being satisfied in my life,” said Lady Frances.
“If you look at this, my lady,” said the constable, holding out the lace, “you’ll soon be satisfied as to what sort of a young lady that is.”
“Oh, you mistake the young lady,” said Mrs. Bertrand, a
nd she whispered to the constable. “Come away: you may be sure you’ll be satisfied — we shall all be satisfied, handsomely, all in good time. Don’t let the delinquency there on her knees,” added she aloud, pointing to Betty Williams—”don’t let the delinquency there on her knees escape.”
“Come along, mistress,” said the constable, pulling up Betty Williams from her knees. “But I say the law must have its course, if I am not satisfied.”
“Oh, I am confident,” said Mrs. Puffit, the milliner, “we shall all be satisfied, no doubt; but Lady Di. Chillingworth knows my Valenciennes lace, and Miss Burrage too, for they did me this morning the honour—”
“Will you do me the favour,” interrupted Lady Frances Somerset, “to leave us, good Mrs. Puffit, for the present? Here is some mistake — the less noise we make about it the better. You shall be satisfied.”
“Oh, your ladyship — I’m sure, I’m confident — I shan’t utter another syllable — nor never would have articulated a syllable about the lace (though Valenciennes, and worth thirty guineas, if it is worth a farthing), had I had the least intimacy or suspicion the young lady was your la’ship’s protégée. I shan’t, at any rate, utter another syllable.”
Mrs. Puffit, having glibly run off this speech, left the room, and carried in her train the constable and Betty Williams, the printer’s devil, and Mrs. Bertrand, the woman of the house.
Miss Warwick, whose confusion during this whole scene was excessive, stood without power to speak or move.
“Thank God, they are gone!” said Lady Frances; and she went to Angelina, and taking her hands gently from before her face, said, in a soothing tone, “Miss Warwick, your friend, Lady Frances Somerset, you cannot think that she suspects—”
“La, dear, no!” cried Nat Gazabo, who had now sufficiently recovered from his fright and amazement to be able to speak: “Dear heart! who could go for to suspect such a thing? but they made such a bustle and noise, they quite flabbergasted me, so many on them in this small room. Please to sit down, my lady. — Is there any thing I can do?”
“If you could have the goodness, sir, to leave us for a few minutes,” said Lady Frances, in a polite, persuasive manner—”you could have the goodness, sir, to leave us for a few minutes.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 386
