Nat, who was not always spoken to by so gentle a voice, smiled, bowed, and was retiring, when Miss Hodges came forward with an air of defiance: “Aristocratic insolence!” exclaimed she: “Stop, Nat — stir not a foot, at your peril, at the word of command of any of the privileged orders upon earth — stir not a foot, at your peril, at the behest of any titled She in the universe! — Madam, or my lady — or by whatever other name more high, more low, you choose to be addressed — this is my husband.”
“Very probably, madam,” said Lady Frances, with an easy calmness, which provoked Miss Hodges to a louder tone of indignation.
“Stir not a foot, at your peril, Nat,” cried she. “I will defend him, I say, madam, against every shadow, every penumbra of aristocratic insolence.”
“As you and he think proper, madam,” replied Lady Frances. “’Tis easy to defend the gentleman against shadows.”
Miss Hodges marched up and down the room with her arms folded. Nat stood stock still.
“The woman,” whispered Lady Frances to Miss Warwick, “is either mad or drunk — or both; at all events we shall be better in another room.” As she spoke, she drew Miss Warwick’s arm within hers.—”Will you allow aristocratic insolence to pass by you, sir?” said she to Nat Gazabo, who stood like a statue in the doorway — he edged himself aside.
“And is this your independence of soul, my Angelina?” cried Araminta, setting her back to the door, so as effectually to prevent her from passing—”and is this your independence of soul, my Angelina — thus, thus tamely to submit, to resign yourself again to your unfeeling, proud, prejudiced, intellect-lacking persecutors?”
“This lady is my friend, madam,” said Angelina, in as firm and tranquil a tone as she could command, for she was quite terrified by her Araminta’s violence.
“Take your choice, my dear; stay or follow me, as you think best,” said Lady Frances.
“Your friend!” pursued the oratorical lady, detaining Miss Warwick with a heavy hand: “Do you feel the force of the word? Can you feel it, as I once thought you could? Your friend! am not I your friend, your best friend, my Angelina? your own Araminta, your amiable Araminta, your unknown friend?”
“My unknown friend, indeed!” said Angelina. Miss Hodges let go her struggling hand, and Miss Warwick that instant followed Lady Frances, who, having effected her retreat, had by this time gained the staircase.
“Gone!” cried Miss Hodges; “then never will I see or speak to her more. Thus I whistle her off, and let her down the wind to prey at fortune.”
“Gracious heart! what quarrels,” said Nat, “and doings, the night before our wedding-day!”
We leave this well-matched pair to their happy prospects of conjugal union and equality.
Lady Frances, who perceived that Miss Warwick was scarcely able to support herself, led her to a sofa, which she luckily saw through the half-open door of a drawing-room, at the head of the staircase.
“To be taken for a thief! — Oh, to what have I exposed myself!” said Miss Warwick.
“Sit down, my dear, now we are in a room where we need not fear interruption — sit down, and don’t tremble like an aspen leaf,” said Lady Frances Somerset, who saw that at this moment, reproaches would have been equally unnecessary and cruel.
Unused to be treated with judicious kindness, Angelina’s heart was deeply touched by it, and she opened her whole mind to Lady Frances, with the frankness of a young person conscious of her own folly, not desirous to apologize or extenuate, but anxious to regain the esteem of a friend.
“To be sure, my dear, it was, as you say, rather foolish to set out in quest of an unknown friend,” said Lady Frances, after listening to the confessions of Angelina. “And why, after all, was it necessary to have an elopement?”
“Oh, madam, I am sensible of my folly — I had long formed a project of living in a cottage in Wales — and Miss Burrage described Wales to me as a terrestrial paradise.”
“Miss Burrage! then why did she not go to paradise along with you?” said Lady Frances.
“I don’t know — she was was so much attached to Lady Di. Chillingworth, she said, she could never think of leaving her: she charged me never to mention the cottage scheme to Lady Di., who would only laugh at it. Indeed, Lady Di. was almost always out whilst we were in London, or dressing, or at cards, and I could seldom speak to her, especially about cottages; and I wished for a friend, to whom I could open my whole heart, and whom I could love and esteem, and who should have the same tastes and notions with myself.”
“I am sorry that last condition is part of your definition of a friend,” said Lady Frances, smiling; “for I will not swear that my notions are the same as yours, but yet I think you would have found me as good a friend as this Araminta of yours. Was it necessary to perfect felicity to have an unknown friend?”
“Ah! there was my mistake,” said Miss Warwick. “I had read Araminta’s writings, and they speak so charmingly of friendship and felicity, that I thought
‘Those best can paint them who can feel them most.’”
“No uncommon mistake,” said Lady Frances.
“But I am fully sensible of my folly,” said Angelina.
“Then there is no occasion to say any more about it at present — to-morrow, as you like romances, we’ll read Arabella, or the Female Quixote; and you shall tell me which, of all your acquaintance, the heroine resembles most. And in the mean time, as you seem to have satisfied your curiosity about your unknown friend, will you come home with me?”
“Oh, madam,” said Angelina, with emotion, “your goodness—”
“But we have not time to talk of my goodness yet — stay — let me see — yes, it will be best that it should be known that you are with us as soon as possible — for there is a thing, my dear, of which, perhaps, you are not fully sensible — of which you are too young to be fully sensible — that, to people who have nothing to do or to say, scandal is a necessary luxury of life; and that, by such a step as you have taken, you have given room enough for scandal-mongers to make you and your friends completely miserable.”
Angelina burst into tears — though a sentimental lady, she had not yet acquired the art of bursting into tears upon every trifling occasion. Hers were tears of real feeling. Lady Frances was glad to see that she had made a sufficient impression upon her mind; but she assured Angelina that she did not intend to torment her with useless lectures and reproaches. Lady Frances Somerset understood the art of giving advice rather better than Lady Diana Chillingworth.
“I do not mean, my dear,” said Lady Frances, “to make you miserable for life — but I mean to make an impression upon you that may make you prudent and happy for life. So don’t cry till you make your eyes so red as not to be fit to be seen at the play to-night, where they must — positively — be seen.”
“But Lady Diana is below,” said Miss Warwick: “I am ashamed and afraid to see her again.”
“It will be difficult, but I hope not impossible, to convince my sister,” said Lady Frances, “that you clearly understand that you have been a simpleton; but that a simpleton of sixteen is more an object of mercy than a simpleton of sixty — so my verdict is — Guilty; — but recommended to mercy.”
By this mercy Angelina was more touched than she could have been by the most severe reproaches.
CHAPTER V.
Whilst the preceding conversation was passing, Lady Diana Chillingworth was in Mrs. Bertrand’s fruit-shop, occupied with her smelling-bottle and Miss Burrage. Clara Hope was there also, and Mrs. Puffit, the milliner, and Mrs. Bertrand, who was assuring her ladyship that not a word of the affair about the young lady and the lace should go out of her house.
“Your la’ship need not be in the least uneasy,” said Mrs. Bertrand, “for I have satisfied the constable, and satisfied every body; and the constable allows Miss Warwick’s name was not mentioned in the warrant; and as to the servant girl, she’s gone before the magistrate, who, of course, will send her to the hous
e of correction; but that will no ways implicate the young lady, and nothing shall transpire from this house detrimental to the young lady, who is under your la’ship’s protection. And I’ll tell your la’ship how Mrs. Puffit and I have settled to tell the story: with your ladyship’s approbation, I shall say—”
“Nothing, if you please,” said her ladyship, with more than her usual haughtiness. “The young lady to whom you allude is under Lady Frances Somerset’s protection, not mine; and whatever you do or say, I beg that in this affair the name of Lady Diana Chillingworth may not be used.”
She turned her back upon the disconcerted milliner as she finished this speech, and walked to the furthest end of the long room, followed by the constant flatterer of all her humours, Miss Burrage.
The milliner and Mrs. Bertrand now began to console themselves for the mortification they had received from her ladyship’s pride, and for the insolent forgetfulness of her companion, by abusing them both in a low voice. Mrs. Bertrand began with, “Her ladyship’s so touchy and so proud; she’s as high as the moon, and higher.”
“Oh, all the Chillingworths, by all accounts, are so,” said Mrs. Puffit; “but then, to be sure, they have a right to be so if any body has, for they certainly are real high-horn people. But I can’t tolerate to see some people, that aren’t no ways born nor entitled to it, give themselves such airs as some people do. Now, there’s that Miss Burrage, that pretends not to know me, ma’am.”
“And me, ma’am, — just the same: such provoking assurance — I that knew her from this high.”
“On St. Augustin’s Back, you know,” said Mrs. Puffit.
“On St. Augustin’s Back, you know,” echoed Mrs. Bertrand.
“So I told her this morning, ma’am,” said Mrs. Puffit.
“And so I told her this evening, ma’am, when the three Miss Herrings came in to give me a call in their way to the play; girls that she used to walk with, ma’am, for ever and ever in the green, you know.”
“Yes; and that she was always glad to drink tea with, ma’am, when asked, you know,” said Mrs. Puffit.
“Well, ma’am,” pursued Mrs. Bertrand, “here she had the impudence to pretend not to know them. She takes up her glass — my Lady Di. herself couldn’t have done it better, and squeezes up her ugly face this way, pretending to be near-sighted, though she can see as well as you or I can.”
“Such airs! she near-sighted!” said Mrs. Puffit: “what will the world come to!”
“Oh, I wish her pride may have a fall,” resumed the provoked milliner, as soon as she had breath. “I dare to say now she wouldn’t know her own relations if she was to meet them; I’d lay any wager she would not vouchsafe a curtsy to that good old John Barker, the friend of her father, you know, who gave up to this Miss Burrage I don’t know how many hundreds of pounds, that were due to him, or else miss wouldn’t have had a farthing in the world; yet now, I’ll be bound, she’d forget this as well as St. Augustin’s Back, and wouldn’t know John Barker from Abraham; and I don’t doubt that she’d pull out her glass at her aunt Dinah, because she is a cheesemonger’s widow.”
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Bertrand, “she couldn’t have the baseness to be near-sighted to good Dinah Plait, that bred her up, and was all in all to her.”
Just as Mrs. Bertrand finished speaking, into the fruit-shop walked the very persons of whom she had been talking — Dinah Plait and Mr. Barker.
“Mrs. Dinah Plait, I declare!” exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand.
“I never was so glad to see you, Mrs. Plait and Mr. Barker, in all my days,” said Mrs. Puffit.
“Why you should be so particularly glad to see me, Mrs. Puffit, I don’t know,” said Mr. Barker, laughing; “but I’m not surprised Dinah Plait should be a welcome guest wherever she goes, especially with a purse full of guineas in her hand.”
“Friend Bertrand,” said Dinah Plait, producing a purse which she held under her cloak, “I am come to restore this purse to its rightful owner: after a great deal of trouble, John Barker (who never thinks it a trouble to do good) hath traced her to your house.”
“There is a young lady here, to be sure,” said Mrs. Bertrand, “but you can’t see her just at present, for she is talking on petticlar business with my Lady Frances Somerset above stairs.”
“Tis well,” said Dinah Plait: “I would willingly restore this purse, not to the young creature herself, but to some of her friends, — for I fear she is not quite in a right state of mind. If I could see any of the young lady’s friends.”
“Miss Burrage,” cried Mrs. Bertrand, in a tone of voice so loud that she could not avoid hearing it, “are not you one of the young lady’s friends?”
“What young lady’s friend?” replied Miss Burrage, without stirring from her seat.
“Miss Burrage, here’s a purse for a young lady,” said Mrs. Puffit.
“A purse for whom? Where?” said Miss Burrage, at last deigning to rise, and come out of her recess.
“There, ma’am,” said the milliner. “Now for her glass!” whispered Mrs. Puffit to Mrs. Bertrand. And, exactly as it had been predicted, Miss Burrage eyed her aunt Dinah through her glass, pretending not to know her. “The purse is not mine,” said she, coolly: “I know nothing of it — nothing.”
“Hetty!” exclaimed her aunt; but as Miss Burrage still eyed her through her glass with unmoved invincible assurance, Dinah thought that, however strong the resemblance, she was mistaken. “No, it can’t be Hetty. I beg pardon, madam,” said she, “but I took you for — Did not I hear you say the name of Burrage, friend Puffit?”
“Yes, Burrage; one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire,” said the milliner, with malicious archness.
“One of the Burrages of Dorsetshire: I beg pardon. But did you ever see such a likeness, friend Barker, to my poor niece, Hetty Burrage?”
Miss Burrage, who overheard these words, immediately turned her back upon her aunt. “A grotesque statue of starch, — one of your quakers, I think, they call themselves: Bristol is full of such primitive figures,” said Miss Burrage to Clara Hope, and she walked back to the recess and to Lady Di.
“So like, voice and all, to my poor Hester,” said Dinah Plait, and she wiped the tears from her eyes. “Though Hetty has neglected me so of late, I have a tenderness for her; we cannot but have some for our own relations.”
“Grotesque or not, ’tis a statue that seems to have a heart, and a gude one,” said Clara Hope.
“I wish we could say the same of every body,” said Mrs. Bertrand.
All this time, old Mr. Barker, leaning on his cane, had been silent: “Burrage of Dorsetshire!” said he; “I’ll soon see whether she be or no; for Hetty has a wart on her chin that I cannot forget, let her forget whom and what she pleases.”
Mr. Barker, who was a plain-spoken, determined man, followed the young lady to the recess; and, after looking her full in the face, exclaimed in a loud voice, “Here’s the wart!—’tis Hetty!”
“Sir! — wart! — man! — Lady Di.!” cried Miss Burrage, in accents of the utmost distress and vexation.
Mr. Barker, regardless of her frowns and struggles, would by no means relinquish her hand; but leading, or rather pulling her forwards, he went on with barbarous steadiness: “Dinah,” said he, “’tis your own niece. Hetty, ’tis your own aunt, that bred you up! What, struggle — Burrage of Dorsetshire!”
“There certainly,” said Lady Diana Chillingworth, in a solemn tone, “is a conspiracy, this night, against my poor nerves. These people, amongst them, will infallibly surprise me to death. What is the matter now? — why do you drag the young lady, sir? She came here with me, sir, — with Lady Diana Chillingworth; and, consequently, she is not a person to be insulted.”
“Insult her!” said Mr. Barker, whose sturdy simplicity was not to be baffled or disconcerted either by the cunning of Miss Burrage, or by the imposing manner and awful name of Lady Diana Chillingworth. “Insult her! why, ’tis she insults us; she won’t know us.”
“How s
hould Miss Burrage know you, sir, or any body here?” said Lady Diana, looking round, as if upon beings of a species different from her own.
“How should she know her own aunt that bred her up?” said the invincible John Barker, “and me who have had her on my knee a hundred times, giving her barley-sugar till she was sick?”
“Sick! I am sure you make me sick,” said Lady Diana. “Sir, that young lady is one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire, as good a family as any in England.”
“Madam,” said John Barker, replying in a solemnity of tone equal to her ladyship’s, “that young lady is one of the Burrages of Bristol, drysalters; niece to Dinah Plait, who is widow to a man, who was, in his time, as honest a cheesemonger as any in England.”
“Miss Burrage! — My God! — don’t you speak!” cried Lady Diana, in a voice of terror.
“The young lady is bashful, my lady, among strangers,” said Mrs. Bertrand.
“Oh, Hester Burrage, is this kind of thee?” said Dinah Plait, with in accent of mixed sorrow and affection; “but thou art my niece, and I forgive thee.”
“A cheesemonger’s niece!” cried Lady Diana, with horror; “how have I been deceived! But this is the consequence of making acquaintance at Buxton, and those watering-places: I’ve done with her, however. Lord bless me! here comes my sister, Lady Frances! Good heavens! my dear,” continued her ladyship, going to meet her sister, and drawing her into the recess at the farthest end of the room, “here are more misfortunes — misfortunes without end. What will the world say? Here’s this Miss Burrage, — take no more notice of her, sister; she’s an impostor; who do you think she turns out to be? Daughter to a drysalter, niece to a cheesemonger! Only conceive!-a person that has been going about with me every where! — What will the world say?”
“That it is very imprudent to have unknown friends, my dear,” replied Lady Frances. “The best thing you can possibly do is to say nothing about the matter, and to receive this penitent ward of yours without reproaches; for if you talk of her unknown friends, the world will certainly talk of yours.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 387
