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.”