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. II.
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.
C H A P. XIX.
An excellent Method of directing a
young
Lady’s Inclinations.
“I Have sent for you,
Eliza, in order to discourse you on a matter of consequence.—Hold up your head:
how frightful you look in that beggarly jacket!”
“It is too bad to be worn, madam,
and therefore I designed giving it to Jenny.”
“Giving it!—No, no, it will do to
cover a bed-quilt for one of the servants. You must not think always to be so
squandering; it is high time you should study economy, and know how to make the
best of things, which, by the bye, brings me to the subject I want to talk with
you upon. Do you know, child, you are to be married very soon?”
Miss Butterfield’s astonishment
prevented her making a reply, and her mother again resumed, “Yes, Eliza, I have
provided a very worthy man to be your husband,—one who is rich enough to keep
you a coach, if you can bring him to that point. Indeed, I like for people to
make a figure abroad, however they may stint themselves at home.”
“But, dear madam, let me know to
whom I am to be sacrificed.”
“You might have found a better word,
miss. The person I have fixed on is Captain Overbury.—What! is the ideot got to
whimpering? I am astonished; but, let me tell you, girl, that I am determined
on the thing; and, if you shew the least resistance to my will, I will never
own you as a daughter more.”
“Hear me (cried Eliza, sobbing) at
least one word.”
“Not half a one, you undutiful
baggage! What! have I taken all this care, and set my poor wits so hard at work
for nothing? I won’t bear it, and therefore I charge you to prepare for
receiving the captain as you ought to do, or turn out of my house immediately.”
It is certain that, had Mrs.
Butterfield employed her cogitations for a month together, to discover the most
effectual method of defeating her own purpose, she could not have hit on one
better adapted than this she had chosen; for Miss Butterfield, being, as before
observed, far gone in the romantic taste, no sooner heard her mother propose
marriage in so peremptory a style, than her inclinations instantaneously
revolted to absolute disobedience. Whatever the agrémens of the captain might be, he was the man which
parental tyranny attempted to impose on her, and consequently to be rejected
with invincible firmness.
Eliza, in the true spirit of
romance, retired to her chamber to bewail her misfortunes, and Mrs. Butterfield
was somewhat comforted by the presence of Mrs. Martin, who, perceiving all was
not right, and burning with impatience for an active part in the matter, whatever
it was, addressed her with, “Lack-a-day! my worthy friend, I am afraid
something rather unpleasant has happened.—Bless me, how I am distressed!” This
sympathetic cant had the desired effect. The angry dame unfolded the whole
affair, weeping and raving by turns at the monstrous obstinacy (as she termed
it) of her daughter. Mrs. Martin was immediately in the same key, lamented the
folly of young women who were averse to submit their inclinations to parental
direction, and then, to wind up the farce, joined in a bitter shower of tears,
for these she had always conveniently at command. Having wept, and railed, and
sympathized, as much as appeared becoming the occasion, she next proceeded to
counsel: “To be sure, my dear madam, you are the best of mothers. I have heard
so high a character of Captain Overbury, that I cannot but be surprised at the
conduct of Miss Butterfield;—she is infatuated surely. Will you give me leave
to try what my remonstrances can effect on her?”
“Aye, do, dear Martin, give the
simple girl a little of your good advice. Perhaps you may bring her to reason.”
Mrs. Martin immediately withdrew for
that purpose, and found, as she expected, the young lady in tears.
“My sweet girl, my best Eliza, what
can occasion this distress, which cuts me to my very soul to witness?”
Here, as before, an ample
explanation took place; the confidante had only to take the other side of the
argument to be as acceptable to the daughter as to the mother.
“To be sure, my dear, parents have a
right to command their children.”
“Not in affairs of the heart, my
dear Mrs. Martin.”
“Why,—no. I confess nature seems to
have limited their power there, and it is a pity that they are so apt to forget
those exquisite sensibilities which they themselves were once endowed with. It
is true, I am not a parent, but, if I were, I think I should proceed on a
different plan.”
“Good creature!—I wish you were my
mother.”
“Why, then, suppose you fancy me
such, and unbosom to me all your griefs. Are you acquainted with the captain?”
“Not in the least.”
“How absurd, to expect a young woman
to love a man she has never seen!”
“Aye, a man she has never seen!—But
one may love a man one has seen but once, Mrs. Martin.”
“Undoubtedly. Refined minds are
eminently susceptible of delicate impressions.—The captain, I think, is a
sailor.”
“Yes,—a vulgar, unpolished, odious,
tar!”
“I must say, my love, that, from
what I conceive of this gentleman, he cannot be suitable to one of your refined
taste and sentiments: besides, it looks so like a Smithfield bargain, that I do
not wonder you are hurt at the idea. I pity you from my soul, nevertheless——”
“You would advise me to accept of
him,” interrupting her.
“I do not know what to say, my poor
girl. If you do, you may probably be miserable, and, if you do not, your
parents’ resentment will fall heavily, I fear.”
“And let it, Mrs. Martin.—What is
life to love!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment dies.
At least, such ties
as those my good mother would impose on me.”
Sweet girl!—But, Eliza, listen to
me.—However disagreeable this match may be to you, (and such I fear it
infallibly will,) you must resolve to submit to it.”
“Can you be serious?”
“Unquestionably so. Consider the
duty you owe to your good parents, who, though they may be a little mistaken,
can mean nothing but your advantage.—The captain is rich.”
“But, my good friend, am I not also
to consider the duty I owe to myself?—Tell me that.”
Here Mrs. Martin thought proper to
give the young casuist the advantage of the argument by pretending to have
nothing to say in reply. Eliza concluded she had actually foiled her, and it
was the intention of the other that she should draw that very conclusion; but,
for what reasons, the good reader must be content to learn from some future
chapter. At present, we can only say that Mrs. Martin concluded her part by
advising Eliza to pacify her mother, for the present, by concealing her
feelings so far as not openly to avow her repugnance to the captain. Much (she
said) might be effected by such a conduct; whereas, declared opposition could
but serve to accelerate the fate she dreaded.
Such a mode was certainly beneath
the dignity of romance, but, the age of chivalry being no more, Eliza considered
that she had at present no valorous knight to defend her cause, and therefore
submitted, (though reluctantly,) to the advice.—In the mean time, Mrs. Martin
promised to exert her endeavours with the mother to bring her over to a more
reasonable way of thinking; not doubting, (she affirmed,) but that lady would
in time be induced to see the cruelty of desiring her daughter to give her hand
to a man who could never obtain her heart;—but, as the bond of this stroke of
friendship, she insisted that Miss Overbury should never be informed of the
conversation that had passed between them.—“It is her brother, you know,
Eliza.”——The suggestion implied a selfishness Miss Butterfield could never
suspect to be any part of Charlotte’s character. However, to oblige this kind
friend, she promised her all the reserve she desired on the occasion.
C H A P. XX.
The Serenade.
ALTHOUGH, pursuant to
the advice of Mrs. Martin, Eliza assumed as cheerful an appearance as she
could, the penetrating eye of Charlotte discovered more at the bottom than the
former chose to avow; but, as she had not the honour of being in the secrets of
the family, it was impossible for her to suspect the cause from whence the
uneasiness of her companion arose. An incident, however, occurred, which
intimated to her a part, though not the whole occasion of it.—Happening one
night to make a longer stay than usual in Miss Butterfield’s apartment, which
lay in a remote part of the Priory, she was suddenly surprized by the sound of
a violin played under the window, to which a plaintive voice sung the following
stanzas.
Ah! why did Nature form you fair,
Yet gave a
heart of steel?
Why was I doom’d those charms to see,
And yet my
love conceal?
Deep in my pensive eyes ’tis writ,
Sighs rend
my aching breast;
I pine the tedious night away,
Depriv’d of
wonted rest.
The sun breaks forth to glad the earth,
Sweet
flowers hail his ray;—
Be thou my sun, and let thy smile
Chase all my
gloom away.
“The voice (said Miss Overbury,) is
more harmonious than the poetry; but, prithee, Eliza, who is this nocturnal
serenader?”
Covered with confusion, she replied,
affecting an air of indifference, that she supposed it was some village-rustic,
not worth enquiry.
“But who, my dear, would take the
liberty of approaching your window in such a manner?”
“Perhaps he has mistaken it for one
of the maids.”
Charlotte, giving her a look of
serious attention, perceived she seemed to shrink from so nice a scrutiny, and
in her blushing countenance saw room for a suspicion pretty nearly the truth.
She would not, however, discover her thoughts at that time, but wished her good
night with more solemnity than was usual to her.—Eliza was not yet so much an
adept in dissimulation as to be able to meet her on the following morning
without discovering manifest uneasiness. Charlotte read her feelings, and, with
the most friendly intentions, persisted in following her, though it was plain
the other industriously avoided her company. At last they met in the garden,
where the following conversation took place between them.
“Eliza, I cannot but observe a
visible alteration in your manner. You are no longer the dear lively
communicative girl you used to be. What is the occasion of it?”
“You distress me, Charlotte, by a
mere suspicion of this nature; yet, if you had not anticipated the remark, I
should perhaps have made exactly such an one on your own behaviour.—In what
manner did you leave me last night!”
“I confess, my dear, it was with
some seriousness and much concern, but with a heart animated with the warmest
affection.”
“I saw that foolish affair
occasioned you to look grave; and, to confess the truth, my beloved Charlotte,
I have severely upbraided myself ever since for the want of confidence I
manifested towards you, for my poor heart longs to repose itself in your
friendly bosom,—assure me but of your forgiveness and pity.”
“The first is unnecessary, as I
could have no cause to be offended; the latter I am incapable of withholding,
whenever my Eliza’s affairs may be so unhappy as to require it.—Come, come,
(smiling,) this looks like so pretty, so tender an affair, that I long to be at
the bottom of it. You have an enamorato incog, is it not so?”
“Ah! if you knew my feelings, you
would treat them with less levity; but you never were sensible of the power of
the soft passion, Charlotte.”
“Not so far as to allow it to
disturb my repose, I confess; yet, for all this, I can sympathize with those
who believe they do.”
“You think love then an imaginary
sentiment.”
“A good part of what is called so I
do sincerely; but, dear creature, do tell me something of the charming fellow
who has raised such a combustion in that gentle bosom;—his name, I mean.”
“I scarcely know it myself.”
“But you do his family, at least.”
“I am quite a stranger to it. All I
know is, that he is a gentleman. Do you recollect, Charlotte, a genteel young
fellow, who frequently sits in the next pew to us at church.”
“I do:— but surely this cannot be
the lover of my Eliza?”
“And what would there be so
extraordinary in the matter if it were?”
“Because nobody knows any thing of
him.”
“You, perhaps, mistake. Mrs. Martin
has assured me that she has been credibly informed he is of a very ancient and
wealthy family, and came hither merely for the benefit of his health.”
“I never heard this village remarked
for the salubrity of its air.”
“Nor I neither. You see then that
this cannot be the true motive of his stay.—To be plain with you, Charlotte, I
saw this young man one morning in a solitary walk, and I verily thought he
would have rivetted his eyes on me. He was then at Ashton, on a shooting-party,
but since that time has constantly resided at the farm on the hill.—Do you
comprehend me now?”
“Too plainly, I fear, my love.”
“What now would sagacious
insensibility forebode?”
“To be plain with you, Eliza, there
is something in this affair which makes me shudder to think on. Consider
seriously, that, if he is thus attached to your person, a man of fortune and
respectable connections, there can be no reason why he should not openly make
his proposals to your father.”
“How indelicately you judge,
Charlotte! Is it not time enough for these odious formalities?”
“Ah! my sweet friend, I doubt you
stand on a fatal precipice, from which a too visionary imagination will fling
you into ruin. Be not offended, I love you, and therefore would prevent
whatever might be destructive to your welfare. Depend on it, this clandestine
lover is either too high or too low to become a proper object of your regard.
Possibly he is some libertine of quality, who has marked you as the prey of the
most abandoned principles; but, if not so, then be assured it is some
despicable wretch, who seeks merely the fortune which you possess as the gift
of your aunt. At all events, I am convinced there is something in the affair
which will not bear the light.”
“My aunt’s legacy is no more than
five thousand pounds, too small a sum surely to become a bait to avarice.”
“It would be affluence to a beggar,
Eliza. Look well to it, my dear girl, (the tears swimming in her eyes,) for
ruin is before you.”
Affected with Charlotte’s emotion,
and touched with the affectionate earnestness of her manner, Eliza burst into
tears; throwing her arms round her neck, she, sobbing, exclaimed, “Save me from
myself, my best friend, and tell me what you would advise me to do.”
“Resolve to put an end to so
imprudent a connection at once.”
“You know not what such a sacrifice
would cost me.”
“It will cost you nothing, but the
extirpation of certain romantic ideas, Eliza.—I confess there are agrémens which might involuntarily
interest one in the behalf of particular objects almost at first sight; but is
this the sentiment on which you would hope to build the happiness of life?—A
permanent passion must have esteem for its basis; and, trust me, my love, all
impressions, which are not thus founded, (as your’s in the nature of things
cannot be,) may be easily managed with the assistance of reason and resolution.
Believe me, I advise you nothing which I have not myself found practicable.”
“You have been in love then,”
eagerly.
“I confess I know what it is to feel
a partiality for an agreeable man. I also know that pride and reason were
abundantly able to surmount so idle a prepossession, as long as there was
reason for me to suppose the object unworthy of my regard.”
To be short, Eliza, by the
remonstrances of her friend, was prevailed on to give up the cause of her
incognito, and to resolve never to speak to or hear from him more. Whether this
resolution was the effect of momentary conviction or the more permanent
suggestions of reason time only must shew. It is certain that Charlotte firmly
believed it to be the latter, and, as she was no less charitable in her
censures than warm in her friendships, she threw the veil of pity over the
weakness of her friend, and resolved to remember it no more.
C H A P. XXI.
A Stranger arrives at the Priory.
WHAT the captain’s
opinion of Mrs. Butterfield’s epistle was, or by what enigmatical genius he
discovered the direct purport of it, this history doth not declare.—In a short
time after the dispatch of it, Charlotte was made happy by seeing at the Priory
an only brother, whom she ardently loved, and their meeting was mutually
celebrated with tears of joy. It being several years since they had seen each
other, he could not avoid testifying both surprise and pleasure at the singular
improvements which, in that time, had taken place in his sister’s person. The
fine expression of her countenance, together with the proof he had lately made
of her amiable disposition, inspired him with a very elevated and pleasing
sensation, while, with a satisfaction almost approaching to rapture, she
contemplated in him the generous protector and unfeigned friend.
By a certain concatenation of ideas
not unusual on such occasions, Eliza had drawn the picture of this young
gentleman, in her mind’s eye, in a style so totally different from the
original, that she felt a sort of agreeable surprise, when, instead of the figure
her prejudiced imagination had pourtrayed, she beheld a handsome person, of
about twenty-five, with a set of features remarkably regular; a clear brown
complexion, animated with the freshness of health; dark expressive eyes, arched
with the exactness of the nicest pencil; and, in short, the very reverse of
that which she had expected to see. Captain Overbury was certainly an
interesting figure, and every glance of the eye spoke the man of intelligence
and urbanity. A liberal education rendered him superior to professional
peculiarities. He was not necessitated through a deficiency of conversable
talents to adopt the affectation of sea-phrases or shocking expletives; but,
though on board he was the intrepid skilful officer, yet, on shore, he
appeared, in every sense of the word, the polite and accomplished gentleman.
Such was the husband Mrs.
Butterfield had pointed out to her daughter; not, indeed, so much from
conviction of his merit as a regard to his fortune, and the young lady, on her
first acquaintance with him, could not but be conscious that he merited not the
repugnance she had felt to her mother’s command.—But now a question of some
moment was depending between the parents, respecting a proper mode of directing
the young gentleman’s attention to their daughter. Fortune, however, happily
stepped forward to relieve their embarrassment, for the Captain had not been
long at the Priory before he discovered something of an attachment, which they
had formed a score of ridiculous plans for effecting.
Miss Butterfield (much about
Charlotte’s age) was a little lively brunette, with so charming an air of
naïveté, and so much good-humour in her countenance, as gave additional charms
to the symmetry of her shape and features. The Captain had seen much of foreign
countries as well as his own, without meeting a woman capable of attaching his
affections or exciting the remotest wish of the Hymeneal bond. He sought not
beauty, though not an admirer of deformity. He desired not wit in a wife,
though determined to marry with no one who was not capable of enlivening a
domestic hour by the charms of a solid understanding and refined mind. In fine,
he had long looked for a woman who was devoid of the levity of fashion, the
disguise of art, or the caprice of an illiterate and ill-disposed mind, and
such an one he imagined to have found in the person of Eliza Butterfield. Yet,
before he ventured to drop any thing of a serious nature, he determined, with a
most endearing confidence, to reveal his sentiments to his sister, not doubting
but she had it in her power to give a more certain information respecting the
object of his attention. With this view, meeting her one day alone, he thus
accosted her, “It appears to me a little extraordinary, my dear Charlotte, that
a girl of your lively disposition should prefer this solitary mansion to the
agreeable family of Sir Bevil Grimstone, except (as I must suppose to be the
case) you found something more engaging in the company of Miss Butterfield than
in that of Miss Grimstone.”
“That, indeed, was part of my motive
for quitting London, brother.”
“I am not surprised at it. She
doubtless appears a very amiable girl in your eye.”
“And, if I am not mistaken,
(archly,) she does in your’s also, my good brother.”
“You are a girl of close
observation, I find, Charlotte. I would have the most latent secret of my heart
exposed to my sister, for it is not merely a fraternal affection I boast of
bearing you, but an esteem and friendship the most lively and sincere;
therefore, to confess a truth, I have sought an opportunity of making you the
confidante of my secret thoughts on a very interesting subject.”
“And may you ever find me deserving
of such confidence!”
“As the first proof of it, tell me
with sincerity, sister, what is your real opinion of Miss Butterfield. The
intimacy subsisting between you must have given you an unreserved acquaintance
with her disposition.—In one word, is it such as your brother might look to for
happiness in the matrimonial state?”
“The taste of you gentlemen is so
very capricious, how is it possible for me to determine what are the
qualifications you require! However, to be serious, I assure you, in the first
place, that her character is entirely free from disguise. She is, I verily
believe, perfectly artless and sincere.”
“And that, Charlotte, I confess, is
what I almost despaired of finding in your sex, therefore had nearly bound
myself to a vow of perpetual celibacy.”
“Come, Sir, (laughing,) no sarcasms
on us poor females, or you bind me in sullen silence.”
“Pardon me, sister.—But have you
nothing more to say in recommendation of your friend?”
“It should seem by your own account
I have said enough, for sincerity appears, in your esteem, to comprehend the
whole of female worth.”
“By no means. Sincerity, indeed,
illustrates all other virtues; but it is not every lady, Charlotte, who would
be a gainer by its exercise.”
“Sarcastic again.—However, for your
comfort, I can assure you Eliza would be no loser by it, since the native
goodness of her disposition would bear the strictest scrutiny. She is gentle,
benevolent, diffident of her own merit; in short, every thing to be desired in
a wife. Her understanding,—but first give me leave to ask if you are one of
those gentlemen who think the latter an indifferent point of consideration.”
“I would have my wife possess at
least as much sense as should leave me no room to blush either at her
conversation or conduct.”
“Why, then, I think Eliza is endowed
with a good natural understanding, but you guess, I suppose, from the character
of her parents, that it can have derived no advantages from cultivation; yet,
should she happily fall to the lot of a sensible worthy man, I doubt not but it
would soon receive its proper lustre. She has, however, one defect, which, as a
person sincerely interested in your happiness, my dear Jack, I must not conceal
from you.”
“What is that?” impatiently.
“An imagination ridiculously
romantic, owing, I conceive, to the little pains that have been taken in
cultivating her mind, and directing a lively fancy in its proper bias. This, if
left to itself, will, I fear, unfortunately mislead her; but, should you be
able to make an impression on her heart, brother, it is probable such a
propensity would be no disadvantage to your mutual happiness.”
“I thank you, my dear Charlotte, for
the frankness which you have so generously shewn on this occasion. One question
more, and I have done.—Do you believe Miss Butterfield’s affections are wholly
disengaged?”
This enquiry threw the young lady
into some little perplexity. She was not willing to reveal that part of Eliza’s
conduct which she had lately witnessed with so much concern, since she firmly
believed her to be convinced of the impropriety of it. She had, moreover, so
steady a reliance on her integrity, as to be assured she would not accept the
addresses of her brother, provided her affections where not wholly disengaged
from any other object, therefore replied,
“I will not pretend to satisfy you
on a point of that nature, brother; but I think neither Eliza’s honour nor the
disposition I have just apprised you of would permit her to give you a
favourable reception, should her inclinations be placed on another object.”
Satisfied with the force of this
suggestion, the Captain determined on making proposals to Mr. Butterfield, and
was by that gentleman referred wholly to his lady. On the application being
made to her, it was with difficulty she concealed the joy she felt at finding
affairs in so promising a way. Together with every possible encouragement, she
gave him an assurance that her daughter’s affections were entirely disengaged,
and then added, “As you have now broke the ice, Captain, I will tell you what I
have been thinking;—we will make a cross-match of it; you shall have Eliza, and
my son Arthur shall marry your sister:—will not this be quite the thing?” The
Captain replied that he could have no objection to the measure, provided his
sister had none. “Why, as to that, a word from you, Captain, will do the
business effectually, for I know she has a great reveration for you.”
“I would by no means take advantage
of my sister’s kind partiality to attempt the biassing her inclinations. Mr.
Arthur, madam, will doubtless be the most proper person to effect that point.”
“Well, well, be that as it may. You
agree to marry Betsey, so I will set Martin on making out a settlement in
readiness.”
“But, my dear madam, you forget that
I am not yet so happy as to have obtained Miss Butterfield’s consent.”
“Her consent!—You have mine, and
that is sufficient. You may tell her, indeed, of what we have agreed on, but if
she should be refectory, I shall
know how to act.”
Eliza, however, when formally
addressed by her lover, gave him such a reception as he concluded he had no
reason to be dissatisfied with; that is, she heard him with a modest silence,
which he interpreted as a tacit permission to continue his suit. As she
expressed no repugnance, he naturally believed she felt none. Nor, indeed, did
she at that moment. Charlotte’s remonstrances on a late occasion had made an
impression on her mind which was not yet erased. Besides, the Captain was in
every respect so unexceptionable a lover, his address so delicate, (for she did
not yet know he had applied to her father and mother,) that, had the first
interview been rather more romantically brought about, and she could have put
Mrs. Butterfield’s stern command out of her head, it is extremely probable she
would have indulged for him a most ardent affection. As it was, she was far
from appearing out of humour in his company. Mrs. Butterfield was in raptures,
Charlotte delighted, and the Captain as happy as a man could be, who saw
apparent room to hope he should one day obtain the only woman he had ever
regarded with affection.
C H A P. XXII.
A Trial of Sensibility.
IT should have been
noticed before, that Miss Overbury, a day or two after the Captain’s arrival,
acquainted him with the circumstance of William Sanders’s death, as also of the
situation of the surviving family. Respectfully recollecting that honest
sailor, he thanked his sister for her beneficence to the widow, “for which
(added he) I consider myself your debtor;” and then, obtaining directions, sat
out instantly for the cottage. The road to it laid through the village church-yard,
in which, on a rising ground, shaded by an old yew-tree, was a grave, over
which the turf seemed newly laid, nor was the verdure of the binding osiers
entirely withered. On this spot a boy of about three years old laid crying, in
piteous accents, “Daddy, won’t you come to us? You sleep here so long, and I am
come to awaken you.”
“And who was your daddy, my poor
child?”
“He was called William Sanders.—You
can speak loud, come and make him hear.”
The Captain was a man of exquisite
sensibility. He put his handkerchief to his eyes with one hand, and with the
other drew a shilling from his pocket. “Take this, my sweet fellow, and buy
yourself a cake.”
The child immediately forgot his
infant-sorrow in the view of present gratification, and ran directly to his
mother. The Captain sat down on a stone close by the grave,—a tear dropped from
his eye. “It is thus, (said he,) I pay the tribute of respect to thy honesty
and worth: but no,—(rising with a noble ardour in his countenance,) there are
other means of doing so.”——Pursuing his way to the cottage, he was soon a
spectator of the widow’s tears, which he found flowed no less for the disgrace
of her eldest son than for the loss of a beloved and faithful husband.
“Had my poor boy, your honour, (said
she,) committed the fault from any wickedness of disposition, I could have
borne it; but to think that love for a poor dying father should have brought
him into this mischief cuts me to the heart.”
“Be in no pain on that account,
(replied the Captain). Let the lad be immediately got home, for I will myself
be his patron, and your’s too, my good woman, for poor Sanders’s sake.”
To describe the widow’s grateful
emotion would be impracticable. Suffice it to observe, that, in a short time,
young Sanders ventured to appear once more in his native village, the Captain
having compromised the affair with the farmer as well as purchased his
indenture of the shoemaker, his master, after which he took him into his own
service. Miss Overbury (it has already been observed) had taken Sally, the
eldest daughter, in quality of waiting-maid; and was so well pleased with her
behaviour, that she already entertained a more than common respect for her.
Sally was a girl of acute parts, and of a most grateful and affectionate disposition,
though rather too pretty, as Mr. Arthur used to observe, for a waiting-maid. “I
wish (said he one day to Charlotte) your brother may not run away with her, for
I perceive he eyes her very cordially.”
“I am sure (returned she, piqued at
the suggestion) he has too much politeness to think of supplanting you in a
scheme on which you might have set your mind.”
One evening as they were sitting at
supper, the footman delivered a letter to Captain Overbury, the contents of
which appeared to give him sensible pleasure. “It is from a friend (said he)
whom I have not seen for a long time, and if you, madam, (addressing Mrs.
Butterfield,) will permit the liberty, I will propose a meeting with him at the
Priory.”
“Dear Captain, (returned that lady,)
I beg you will spare such a superfluity of apology. You are absolutely polite
in recess. But it gives me inaccessible pain that you should forget
you are quite at home at the Priory.”
After a little reflection, the
Captain was enabled to pick out of this eloquent speech, that he might take the
liberty of inviting his friend, who was then at the distance of about twenty
miles to the Priory, and therefore immediately retired for that purpose.
“Pray, Miss Overbury, (said Mr.
Arthur, inquisitively,) do you know who this friend of the Captain is?”
“Indeed, Sir, I have not heard my
brother say.”
“Some jolly tar, I suppose,” a
little contemptuously.
“Fortune forbid it should be an
academician!” returned she in the same strain.
“Why, madam, do you think the character
contemptible?”
“My dear Sir, the universe, you
know, cannot bear two suns, nor Ashton two scholars.”
Mrs. Butterfield, who certainly
thought this a very high-raised panegyric on the lustre of her son’s abilities,
declared it was perdegis cleaver.
Mr. Arthur, however, felt the full force of its irony, and retired in sullen
silence.—Of this nature were the conversations which usually took place between
this young couple, and, in Mrs. Butterfield’s estimation, they amounted to a
proof that the fond pair were merrily jogging on their way to the temple of
Hymen. “We shall have two weddings in the family very shortly, (said she,) and
we will have a sumptuous galley* on the occasion.”
“Why, child, our river is scarcely
able to bear a wash-tub, it is so shallow.”
“You do not understand French, Mr.
Butterfield, or you would have known that I meant a feast, or entertainment.”
“Truly, sweeting, I never knew that
you dabbled in French lingo before.”
C H A P. XXIII.
Interesting Conversations.
EVERY body at the
Priory wearing a face of joy, Mrs. Martin thought it convenient to assume one
of the same cast, and accordingly seemed to participate in the general
satisfaction with the utmost sincerity. She often assured Mrs. Butterfield of
the inexpressible happiness she felt in seeing every thing succeeding so
desirably. “It is to you, my dear Martin, (replied that lady,) I am in great
measure indebted for its being so.—Your good counsel has had its due effect, I
hope, on the behaviour of that perverse girl. It is a charming thing to have
such a sensible prudent neighbour at hand.”
“Ah, well-a-day! my poor abilities
can have done but little service; yet, what is there I would not attempt for
the advantage of this dear family!—It will be a match you think?”
“Oh! certainly. I am persuaded Eliza
has a sincere regard for the Captain.”
Mrs. Martin wished to have some
conversation with the young lady herself, and, understanding she was in the
garden alone, followed her thither. Eliza, as usual, was reading in an alcove.
The other, affecting not to discover her, fell into the following soliloquy:
“Poor sacrificed victim! my heart bleeds.—Oh the cruelty of unfeeling parents!”
“Who are you speaking to, my dear
Mrs. Martin?” said Miss Butterfield.
“Heavens, Eliza! (starting,) how you
have surprised me! I little thought any one was so near; I was only talking to
myself, as I am apt to do when my heart is warmly interested.”
But who, pray, is the subject of so
pathetic a soliloquy?”
“Pshaw! it signifies nothing.”
“I know you meant myself, did you
not, my good friend?”
“I confess I did. Ah! my sweet girl,
when I see you thus heroically determined on sacrificing happiness to duty, I
look upon you with admiration and pity.”
“But perhaps (interrupted the young lady
with a serene air) I may find happiness and duty go together.”
“Oh that you may! (weeping and
grasping her by the hand.) But, my dear child, I see your secret struggles,
though concealed from every other eye; and you would, if possible, hide them from
yourself:—but friendship is keen-sighted;—I know them all. Captain Overbury is
a mean-souled wretch, to persist in taking the advantage of your mother’s
partiality in his favour; but, indeed, he looks on you as his purchase.—To be
sure, he drove a good bargain with her, and who can blame him?—It is a well
concerted affair.”
“He has already solicited my mother,
then?”
“Yes, long before he did you. We are
not to expect delicacy of sentiment in a sailor. Provided pecuniary matters are
well settled, they have no notion of the ineffable union of noble and virtuous
hearts. How should they, as they get wives in every port they come to?”
Eliza sighed deeply.
“Nevertheless, (resumed Mrs.
Martin,) this gentleman may make a good husband, provided you will not be
jealous, and that I know is a weakness you would be superior to.”
“In its grosser sense I trust I
should; yet, Mrs. Martin, I doubt I could ill bear a rival in a husband’s
heart.”
“A fiddle for the heart! that is out
of the question. I dare answer you would have as much of that as any other
woman; and, if you can overlook a thousand indelicacies which are ever the
result of inelegant minds, you will, as you say, find happiness and duty go
together.”
Here the young lady burst into a
flood of tears. Mrs. Martin threw her arms round her, and pressed her warmly to
her bosom. “My poor Eliza, my sweet girl! (exclaimed she,) how my heart bleeds
for you! Yet let a friend give her best advice. I know you dislike the Captain,
nor can I pretend to say he is a person at all suitable to you; yet it is the
will of your parents that you marry him: it is also, no doubt, the wish of your
beloved Charlotte. In short, every thing makes for it, and you must have him.
The Captain, I hope, has some good qualities, and, if you can only exert a
little philosophy, you may be tolerably happy.”
To talk of philosophy to a romantic
enthusiast was saying nothing, or worse than nothing.—Eliza, after some time,
recovering from her emotion, calmly replied, “My dear Mrs. Martin, I know you
would, if possible, promote the happiness of the family, but it must not be at
the expence of an individual of it. My eyes are now open to the horrid gulph
before me; for, indeed of late, I have been sleeping on the brink of a
precipice. The stars had certainly fascinated me, I think, or I never should
have dreamt of happiness with Captain Overbury; but my good genius has broken
the spell. I see the affair in its proper light, and will sooner die than
consent to this odious marriage.”
“What! (with an air of
astonishment,) will you tarnish at last the noble heroism for which I just now
admired you? Consider, I beseech you, Eliza, what sufferings, what poignant
distress will attend such an imprudent resolution!—Better to lead an insipid
life with the Captain than bear the resentment of all your friends; but I see
company coming towards us. You shall drink tea with me this afternoon, and we
will endeavour to set this matter on a proper footing.’
Charlotte and her brother advanced
to join them, and the former in a sprightly tone said, “Here then we have found
the little runaway. We have been seeking you, my dear, in every corner and
thicket of the park.”
Mrs. Martin made an effort to
withdraw, which the Captain by his looks heartily wished she would; but Eliza,
with a secret twitch of her gown, desired she would take a turn or two with
them, to which she consenting, the conversation of course became general, and
that lady, notwithstanding the inelegancies she had discovered in the Captain’s
mind, condescended to pay him particular attention, applauding every syllable
he uttered, and declaring, at the end of their perambulation, that she had not
spent half an hour so agreeably a long time; but this Miss Butterfield imputed
to her friend’s excessive politeness. It is certain, that, if she had another
motive, the Fates ordained that it should be confined to her own breast, as the
Captain, whose penetration probably gave him some insight into her character,
mortally hated her, and could never bring himself to treat her with more than
distant civility. This was a sensible mortification to one, who, on all
occasions, would have had it thought that her interest was of consequence in
the family. Had the Captain, therefore, endeavoured to engage her mediation in
favour of his suit, she perhaps would not have pronounced him so very inelegant
a character.
In the afternoon, Eliza got leave of
her mother to drink tea at Mrs. Martin’s. The two ladies had taken their work,
and were beginning to revive the conversation of the morning, when a servant
brought word that a gentleman at the door wanted Mr. Martin. “Will you excuse
me, Miss Butterfield, (said she,) it is a person on business, and I must invite
him into the parlour.”
“By all means.”
“I am extremely sorry (said Mrs.
Martin on the gentleman’s appearing,) that my husband is from home, Sir; but,
if you will take the trouble to call again, or would choose to leave your
business with me”—
“It is only, madam, (replied he
rather pensively,) to enquire if he has drawn up that paper for which I gave
him instructions the other day.”
“I believe not, Sir, (smiling,) and
I hope there is no occasion for him to be in a hurry on the business.”
“More than you are aware of,
(returned the other angrily.) Tell him, if you please, madam, that I will be
delayed no longer.”
The gentleman then withdrew, and
Mrs. Martin, turning to her companion, observed she was covered with confusion.
She took no notice of it, however, but said, “I pity from my heart that poor
young man. He is certainly in a desponding way, and I fear has some fatal
design in his head, for he has employed Mr. Martin to make his will, and you
see how earnest he is that it should be done.”
“I hope not, (answered Eliza with a tear glistening in her eye;—for, to confess a secret, it was no other than the very gallant mentioned in a preceding chapter, and whom she had not seen since the