CHAP. I.

ABOUT the middle of July, 17, when the Windſor ſtage-coach with the accuſtomed number of paſſengers was proceeding on its way to London, a young woman genteely dreſſed, with a ſmall parcel tied up in her handkerchief, haſtily bolted from the ſhelter of a large tree near the road; and, call⯑ing to the coachman to ſtop for a moment, aſked him, if he could let her have a place? The man, although he well knew his vehicle was already ſufficiently crouded, yet being de⯑ſirous of appropriating this ſupernumerary fare to himſelf, replied, that he did not doubt but he could find room for her; and, jumping off his box, begged the company to ſit cloſe, and give the young woman a place.

[2]"What do you mean?" ſaid a jolly fat woman, with a face as red as ſcarlet, ‘Have you not got your uſual number of paſſengers? Do you think we will be ſtifled with heat to put money into your pocket?’ ‘There is room enough for ſuch a ſlender young body as this,’ ſaid the coachman, ‘if you would but ſit cloſer.’

"Sit cloſer!" repeated the dame, and, ſpread⯑ing her cloaths, ‘Don't you ſee we are crouded to death: how dare you pretend to impoſe another paſſenger upon us, when your coach is already full?’

"Well," ſaid a tall lean woman, who ſat next her, ‘This is the firſt time I ever tra⯑velled in a ſtage-coach, and truly I am ſick of it already. There is no bearing the in⯑ſults one is expoſed to in theſe carriages. Prithee, young woman,’ purſued ſhe, with an air of great contempt, ‘Go about your bu⯑ſineſs, you ſee there is no room for you— And do you, fellow, get on your box, and drive on.’

"Fellow me! no fellows," ſaid the coach⯑man, in a ſurly tone, ‘I won't drive till I pleaſe. Who are you, pray, that takes ſo much upon you to order me?’

[3] ‘Who am I, you ſaucy Jack-a-napes, ſaid the lady, a perſon that—but I ſhall not demean myſelf ſo much as to tell you who I am: it is my misfortune to be ſtuffed up in a ſtage-coach at preſent—what I have never been uſed to, I aſſure you.’

"Good lack-a-day!" ſaid the fat gentle⯑woman, with a ſneer, ‘A great misfortune truly— I would have you to know, madam, your betters ride in ſtage-coaches. Here's a coil indeed with ſuch would-be gentry.’

"Good woman," ſaid the other, with an affected calmneſs, ‘Pray don't direct your im⯑pertinent diſcourſe to me, I have nothing to ſay to you.’

"No more a good woman than yourſelf," ſaid the plump lady, with a face doubly inflamed with rage; "I ſcorn your words."

"Very likely;" ſaid a grave man, who ſat on the oppoſite ſide, ‘but I wiſh it was poſſi⯑ble to make room for the young gentle⯑woman’ — "Ah! God bleſs your honour," ‘ſaid the coachman, I thought you could not find in your heart to let ſuch a pretty young woman as this walk.’

"Pretty!" exclaimed the haughty lady— ‘You are a fine judge of beauty indeed— but I will not ſubmit to be crouded, fellow: ſo [4] you and your pretty paſſenger may ride on the coach-box, if you pleaſe.’

"Nay, ſince you come to that," ſays the fat gentlewoman, ‘I am reſolved you ſhall not have your own way— The young lady may be as good as you; and ſhe ſhall not be obliged to ride on the coach-box— So open the door, coachman,’ ſaid ſhe, ſhoving her antagoniſt at the ſame time with all her force—"Here is room enough."

A young gentlewoman in a riding-habit, who ſat on the ſame ſide, but next the window, de⯑clared that ſhe was willing to give part of her ſeat to the ſtranger; and begged the haughty lady to yield. "Poh," ſaid the roſy matron, ‘don't ſtand begging and praying her; ſince you are on my ſide, we will be too hard for her, I warrant you.’ Saying this, ſhe put one of her huge arms round the young woman's waiſt; and thus reinforced, ſhoved her neigh⯑bour ſo forcibly againſt the other window, that ſhe cried out with pain and vexation.

The young lady without, who had been the occaſion of this conteſt, and who had hitherto ſtood ſilent, with her hat over her eyes, alarmed by the ſcreams of her foe, raiſed her head; and in a tone of voice ſo ſweet, as immediately fixed the attention of the whole company, in⯑treated [5] them not to quarrel upon her account: it was indeed, ſhe ſaid, of great conſequence to her to be admitted, but ſhe would not con⯑tinue to deſire it, ſince her requeſt had pro⯑duced ſo much uneaſineſs among them.

The paſſengers who occupied the other ſide of the coach were two men and a woman big with child; which circumſtance had made it impoſſible for the men to offer her a ſeat with them, for fear of incommoding the pregnant woman. But the youngeſt of the men having now got a glimpſe of the ſtranger's face, declared that the ladies might make themſelves eaſy, for he would reſign his ſeat; adding, that he was extremely glad he had an opportunity of obliging ſuch a handſome lady. He then jumped out of the coach, and taking the ſtranger's hand to help her in, ſtared confidently under her hat, which put her into a little confuſion: however ſhe thanked him very politely, and accepted his offer; but not without expreſſing ſome con⯑cern for the manner in which he would diſpoſe of himſelf.

"Oh! madam," ſaid the coachman, ‘the gentleman may ſit upon the box with me, and he will have the pleaſure of viewing the beau⯑tiful proſpects all the way we go.’ — ‘I ſhall ſee none ſo beautiful,’ ſaid the young fellow, ‘[6]as what they who remain in the coach will behold.’

The fair ſtranger now bluſhed more than before, and being willing to avoid any farther ſpeeches of this nature, ſhe haſtily got into the coach, thanked the young man a ſecond time, who having ſeen her ſeated, placed himſelf by the coachman on the box, and they proceeded on their journey.

CHAP. II.

A Profound ſilence now prevailed among the company in the coach; the eyes of all were faſtened upon the fair ſtranger, who ap⯑peared wholly inſenſible of the ſcrutinizing looks of her fellow-travellers. Something within herſelf ſeemed to engroſs all her thoughts, and although by her eyes being conſtantly turned to⯑wards the windows of the coach, it might be imagined the paſſing objects drew her atten⯑tion, yet their fixed looks too plainly indicated that they were beheld without obſervation. Her [7] perſon, though full of charms, and the eaſy gracefulneſs of her air, impreſſed leſs reſpect for her on the minds of the women, than the ele⯑gance of her morning-dreſs, which they were now at leiſure to conſider. Her gown was a white ſprig'd muſlin, extremely fine, through which ſhone a rich blue Mantua ſilk petticoat: her cap, handkerchief, and ruffles were trimmed with fine Bruſſels lace: her apron had a broad border round it of Dreſden work; and a white luteſtring hat ſhaded her charming face, which ſhe was ſolicitous to conceal from view.

The melancholy with which ſhe ſeemed op⯑preſſed, conciliated to her the good will of her female fellow-travellers, though from very dif⯑ferent ſentiments. The haughty lady, who had refuſed to let her have a place in the coach, found her envy and ill-nature inſenſibly ſubſide, by the conſideration that this ſtranger was pro⯑bably more unhappy than herſelf.

The luſty matron, pleaſed that by inſiſting upon receiving her, ſhe had conferred an obli⯑gation on one who appeared to be of a rank above her own, enjoyed her preſent ſuperiority, and pitied her from the overflowings of gratified pride.

The young lady in the riding-habit, whoſe vanity had been a little mortified at ſeeing her⯑ſelf [8] aſſociated in a journey with perſons whom ſhe conceived to be very unfit company for her, thought herſelf very happy in the acquiſition of ſo genteel a fellow-traveller; and as ſhe had not deign'd to open her mouth before, from an opinion of the meanneſs of her company, ſhe now made herſelf amends for her ſilence, by addreſſing a profuſion of civil ſpeeches to the fair ſtranger, who replied to every thing ſhe ſaid with extreme politeneſs, but with an all that ſhowed her heart was not at eaſe.

The paſſengers being ſet down at different places, miſs Courteney, for that was the name of our fair adventurer, remained alone with the young lady in the coach. This circumſtance ſeemed to rouze her from a deep revery, in which ſhe had been wholly abſorbed during the laſt half hour; and looking earneſtly at her companion, "Ah! madam, ſaid ſhe," in a moſt affecting accent, "and when am I to loſe you?" "I ſhall leave you in a few minutes," ſaid the lady; ‘for I am going no farther than Ham⯑merſmith.’ "Lord bleſs me!" ſaid miſs Cour⯑teney, liſting up her fine eyes ſwimming in tears, ‘What ſhall I do? what will become of me?’

This exclamation gave great ſurprize to the other lady, who from ſeveral circumſtances had [9] conceived there was ſome myſtery in her caſe. "You ſeem uneaſy," ſaid ſhe to miſs Courteney, ‘pray let me know if it be in my power to ſerve you.’

This kind requeſt had ſuch an effect on the tender heart of miſs Courteney, that ſhe burſt into tears, and for a few moments was unable to anſwer; when the lady preſſing her to ſpeak freely, "I am an unhappy creature, madam, ſaid ſhe, ſighing; ‘and am flying from the only perſon in the world upon whom I have any de⯑pendence. I will make no ſcruple to truſt you with my ſecret. Did you ever hear of lady Meadows,’ purſued ſhe, ‘the widow of Sir John Meadows?’

"I know a lady who is acquainted with her," ſaid the other, ‘ſhe is a woman of faſhion and fortune.’

"Lady Meadows is my relation," reſumed miſs Courteney; ‘ſhe took me, a poor helpleſs orphan, under her protection, and during ſome time treated me with the tenderneſs of a mo⯑ther. Within theſe few weeks I have unhap⯑pily loſt her favour, not by any fault of mine, I aſſure you, for I have always loved and re⯑verenced her. Nothing ſhould have obliged me to take this ſtep, which has no doubt an [10] appearance of ingratitude, but the fear of being forced to marry a man I hate.’

"O heavens! my dear creature," exclaimed the lady, ‘What do you tell me! were you upon the point of being forced to a deteſted match?’ "I was, madam," replied miſs Cour⯑teney; ‘and to this hard lot was I doomed by her to whom I owe all my paſt happineſs, and from whom I expected all the future.’

‘You have obliged me exceſſively by this unreſerved confidence,’ interrupted the lady; ‘and you ſhall find me not unworthy of it. From this moment I ſwear to you an invio⯑lable attachment. Sure there is nothing ſo tranſporting as friendſhip and mutual confi⯑dence. Yon won my heart the moment I ſaw you. I have formed a hundred violent friendſhips, but one accident or other al⯑ways diſſolved them in a ſhort time. There are very few perſons that are capable of a violent friendſhip; at leaſt I never could find one that anſwered my ideas of that ſort of en⯑gagement. Have not you been often diſap⯑pointed? tell me, my dear: I dare ſay you have. Your ſentiments, I believe, are as delicate as mine upon this head. I am charmed, I am raviſhed with this meeting. Who would have imagined that by chance, [11] and in a ſtage-coach, I ſhould have found what I have ſo earneſtly ſought for theſe three months, a perſon with whom I could contract a violent friendſhip, ſuch as minds like our's are only capable of feeling.’

‘I am extremely obliged to you, madam, for your good opinion,’ ſaid miſs, Courteney; ‘I hope I ſhall never be ſo unfortunate as to for⯑feit it; indeed I have reaſon to think that in my preſent diſtreſſed ſituation, a friend is a bleſſing ſent from heaven.’

"Well! but my dear Clelia," ſaid this flighty lady, ‘you have not told me all your ſtory— I call you Clelia, becauſe you know it is ſo like common acquaintance to addreſs one an⯑other by the title of Miſs ſuch a one— Ro⯑mantick names give a ſpirit to the correſ⯑pondence between ſuch friends as you and I are; but perhaps you may like another name better than Clelia; though I think that is a mighty pretty one, ſo ſoft and gliding, Clelia, Clelia— tell me do you like it, my dear?’

"Call me what you pleaſe," ſaid miſs Cour⯑teney, ſmiling a little at the ſingularity of her new friend; "but my name is Courteney."

"Courteney is a very pretty ſirname," ſaid the lady; ‘I hope it is not diſgraced with any [12] odious vulgar chriſtian name, ſuch as Molly, or Betty, or the like.’

‘I was chriſtened Henrietta, after my mo⯑ther,’ ſaid miſs Courteney. ‘Henrietta is well enough—returned the other; but poſitively, my dear, you muſt aſſume the name of Cle⯑lia when you write to me; for we muſt cor⯑reſpond every hour—Oh! what a raviſhing pleaſure is it to indulge the overflowings of one's heart upon paper! Remember to call me Celinda in your letters; and in all our private converſations, we ſhall have a thou⯑ſand ſecrets to communicate to each other. But I am impatient to know all your ſtory; it muſt needs be very romantick and pretty.’

"Alas!" ſaid the charming Henrietta, ‘this is no time to relate my misfortunes; we are entered into Hammerſmith, and there you ſay you muſt leave me: give me your advice, dear madam, as to the manner in which I muſt diſpoſe of myſelf.’

"Dear madam," repeated the lady— ‘is that the ſtyle then you reſolve to uſe; have you forgot that we have contracted a violent friend⯑ſhip, and that I am your Celinda, and you my Clelia.’

"I beg your pardon," ſaid Henrietta; ‘I did not think of that name: well then, dear Ce⯑linda, [13] what would you adviſe me to do? I am going to London, there to conceal myſelf from the ſearch that lady Meadows will doubt⯑leſs make for me when ſhe hears I have left her houſe: all my hope of a reconciliation with her is through the interpoſition of a friend. I have a brother, who has been abroad theſe ten years, and whom I every day expect to hear is arrived; but I dare not ſhow myſelf to any of lady Meadows's acquaintance, leſt I ſhould be hurried back, and ſacrificed to what ſhe calls my intereſt. I know ſo little of the town, that I am afraid I may take up my reſidence in an improper houſe, among people where my honour, or at leaſt my re⯑putation, may be in danger. Direct me, dear madam— My dear Celinda, I would ſay, direct me what to do in this dreadful di⯑lemma.’ Here ſhe pauſed, anxiouſly expect⯑ing the anſwer of her new friend, which will be found in the following chapter.

CHAP. III.

"I Proteſt, my deareſt Clelia," ſaid the lady, ‘your fears are very natural upon this oc⯑caſion. I ſhould in your ſituation be almoſt diſtracted. Even our parents' watchful cares are hardly ſufficient to guard us againſt the attempts of inſolent men: how much more then are thoſe attempts to be dreaded, when we are left defenceleſs and expoſed. Believe me, my dear, I ſympathize truly with you in this misfortune. Good Heaven! I think I ſhould die with apprehenſion were I in your caſe.’

"Dont terrify me," ſaid miſs Courteney, trembling. ‘I have taken an imprudent ſtep, but I muſt make the beſt of it now: Provi⯑dence, I hope, will be my guard.’

"I would not terrify you, my dear," ſaid the lady; ‘but I muſt repeat, that were I in your caſe, I think my fears would dictract me. Thank Heaven? I am protected by watchful parents, cautious relations, and prudent friends; [15] yet hardly thus can I think myſelf ſecure from theſe enterpriſing wretches the men.’

This young lady had indeed a ſtronger pro⯑tector than, all theſe, which ſhe did not mention, or perhaps was inſenſible of; and that was the extreme diſagreeableneſs of her whole perſon. Her features, it is true, could not be called ir⯑regular, becauſe; few faces were ever diſtin⯑guiſhed with a ſet more uniformly bad. Her complexion, which was a compoſition of green and yellow, was marvelouſly well ſuited to her features. Nor was it poſſible to make any invi⯑dious compariſons between her face and her ſhape, ſince it was hard to decide which was worſe.

Miſs Courteney, who had burſt into tears, occaſioned by her reflections on her own help⯑leſs ſituation, compared with the advantages her friend enjoyed, and which ſhe had ſo often⯑tatiouſly enumerated, was upon the point of ſo⯑liciting her advice again; when the lady joy⯑fully exclaimed, ‘Oh! there is my aunt's houſe, my dear Clelia, we muſt part imme⯑diately.’

"Sure," ſaid Henrietta, ſighing, ‘you will not leave me till you have adviſed me what to do.’

[16]"Lord! my dear," ſaid the other, ‘one young creature is not qualified to give another ad⯑vice upon ſuch occaſions. I wiſh it was in my power to give you proper advice; you know I have vowed to you an inviolable friendſhip.’ And, —

Here the coachman, as he had been direct⯑ed, ſtopped before a large handſome houſe; and a well-dreſſed footman immediately ap⯑pearing, came forwards to open the coach⯑door.

"Hear me one word," cried miſs Courteney, perceiving this tender friend was actually going to leave her without any farther ſolicitude for her ſafety — ‘upon the ſtrength of that invio⯑lable friendſhip you have vowed to me, I will venture to aſk a favour of you: it is, purſued ſhe, that you will recommend me to ſome perſon of your acquaintance in London, who may direct me to a decent houſe, where I can remain in ſafety till my brother's arrival.’

"I vow this is a lucky thought," ſaid the lady; ‘I believe I can ſerve you, my dear Clelia; but you muſt ſtep in with me to my aunt's. John,’ ſaid ſhe to the ſervant, ‘is my aunt at home.’ The man told her his lady was juſt gone to take an airing.

[17]"That's well," ſaid the lady; ‘we ſhall have an opportunity to ſettle this matter: but, my dear Clelia, I think it will be beſt to diſcharge the coach, the fellow poſſibly will not wait. I'll ſend my aunt's ſervant to take a place for you in the Hammerſmith ſtage, which I know does not ſet out this half hour.’

Henrietta readily complied, overjoyed that ſhe had really found a ſincere friend in the perſon of this whimſical lady; who, having led her into a large well-furniſhed parlour, ordered ſome tea to be brought, and then told her, that ſhe would give her a letter to her millener, who was a very good ſort of a woman, and where ſhe might depend upon being abſolutely ſafe.

"When I was laſt in town," purſued ſhe, ‘which was about three weeks ago, her firſt floor was empty; and in this ſeaſon of the year, I believe ſhe will let it to you for two guineas a week.’

"A ſingle room will do for me," ſaid miſs Courteney; ‘my circumſtances do not entitle me to magnificent lodgings, and my buſineſs is to keep myſelf private.’

"Well, well, my dear, be that as you pleaſe," [...]aid the other; ‘I will write the letter with⯑out mentioning what lodgings you require.’ [18] Saying this, ſhe called for pens and paper; and having wrote the following billet, gave it to miſs Courteney for her peruſal.

Henrietta having read the letter, returned it again into the hands of her friend, grate⯑fully acknowledging the favour, although ſhe had ſome objections to it; for ſhe did not ap⯑prove of the words genteel apartments, being reſolved not to exceed a very moderate price: but ſhe rightly conceived that miſs Woodby ra⯑ther liſtened to her own pride than her conve⯑niency, [19] by throwing in that circumſtance, and therefore took no notice of it.

The letter being ſealed and directed, miſs Courteney carefully depoſited it in her pocket, and the two ladies were preparing to drink their tea, when the footman entered, and ſaid the ſtage⯑coach was juſt going off: our fair traveller in⯑ſtantly roſe up, and took leave of her friend, who having prevailed upon her to drink a glaſs of ſack and water, ſince ſhe was diſappointed of her tea, parted with her with an affectionate em⯑brace, and a promiſe that ſhe would ſee her in town very ſhortly.

Miſs Courteney finding only one paſſenger in the coach, who was a grave elderly woman, ſhe reſumed her journey with ſome kind of chearful⯑neſs, having thus happily got over her appre⯑henſions of falling into bad company, where chance might have directed her to lodge.

CHAP. IV.

BUT this ceſſation from uneaſineſs did not laſt long: for the mind which can faſten with violence but upon one circumſtance of diſ⯑treſs at a time, and being ſuddenly relieved from that, is ſenſible of a calm, which, compared with its former feelings, may be called pleaſure, yet ſoon ſelects another object to engroſs its attention, and fixes on it with equal anxiety and ſollicitude. Thus it fared with our lovely heroine, whoſe others cares had all been ſwallowed up in re⯑flections on the danger to which her honour was expoſed. Eaſed of theſe apprehenſions by the good offices of miſs Woodby, ſhe was happy for a few moments, till the conſequences of her flight ruſh'd full upon her mind: lady Meadows's favour irrecoverable; her fortune ruined; her reputation blaſted. This laſt thought, which, from the delicacy of her ſentiments, gave her the deepeſt regret, dwelt moſt upon her mind; and forgetting that ſhe was not alone, ſhe claſped [21] her hands together in a violent emotion, and burſt into tears.

The old gentlewoman, who had been eyeing her very attentively, not a little ſurpriſed at the ſeriouſneſs that appeared in the looks and beha⯑viour of ſo young a creature, eagerly aſked her, What was the matter?

Henrietta, rouzed by this queſtion, which, (ſo abſent had ſhe been) firſt informed her ſhe was obſerved, wiped her eyes, and compoſing her countenance, ſaid ſhe was often low-ſpi⯑rited.

"Don't tell me of low ſpirits," ſaid the old [...]entlewoman, ‘ſuch young bodies as you are not low-ſpirited for nothing. What! I war⯑rant you, there is a ſweetheart in the caſe.’

"Oh! no, madam," ſaid miſs Courteney, [...]uſhing, "no ſweetheart, I aſſure you."

"No, really," reſumed ſhe; ‘well then, I ſuppoſe you have loſt a friend.’

"I have indeed loſt a friend," ſaid the young [...]dy; hoping that acknowledgment would put [...] end to the queſtions of her fellow-traveller.

"Indeed!" ſaid the old woman; "and this friend — is it a father, or mother, or ſiſter, or —

All, all," interrupted miſs Courteney; burſt⯑ [...]g again into tears.

[22]"How all?" repeated the old woman. ‘Have you juſt now loſt all theſe relations?’

‘I loſt them all in loſing that friend, ma⯑dam,’ ſaid Henrietta; vexed that her ſenſibi⯑lity, wakened by ſuch queſtions, had made her too little guarded in her expreſſions.

"Oh, Oh, I underſtand you, child," ſaid the good gentlewomen: ‘this perſon, I don't aſk you whether it was a man or woman, was to you both father and mother. Well; and ſo I ſuppoſe you have juſt heard of the death of this good friend, and are going to town on that occaſion.’

Miſs Courteney finding that the inquiſitive temper of her fellow-traveller was likely to lead her into a diſcovery of her ſituation, choſe ra⯑ther to be ſilent than violate truth, by feigning circumſtances, to deceive her; and, fortunately for her, ſhe was prevented from ſuffering more diſagreeable interrogatories, by the coach ſud⯑denly ſtopping at an inn in Piccadilly, where it put up.

The old gentlewoman, however, at parting, aſked her what part of the town ſhe was going to, and offered, if it was in her way, to accom⯑pany her; but Henrietta evaded the queſtion and the offer, by telling her, that ſhe ſhould take a chair. The coachman accordingly called one [23] for her, which ſhe entered immediately; and being aſked by the chairman where ſhe would pleaſe to be carried? ſhe recollected with great confuſion, that miſs Woodby had not told her where her millener lived.

She now ſought for the letter, hoping there was a full direction upon that. But what was her grief and perplexity, when ſhe found the ſuperſcription contained only theſe words ‘For Mrs. Egret.’ "Good Heaven!" exclaimed [...]he fair unfortunate, "what ſhall I do now?

The chairman repeating his queſtion; ſhe told him that ſhe had forgot a direction, and aſked him, if he knew where Mrs. Egret, a millener, [...]ved? The fellow replied in the negative; but added, that he would enquire. He accordingly [...]epped into the neareſt ſhop, which was a ha⯑ [...]erdaſher's, and making a ſmall blunder in the [...]ame, which the perſon he ſpoke to miſtook for [...]ccles, he was told, that the millener he en⯑quired for lived in Charles ſtreet.

The fellow returned extremely pleaſed with [...]is ſucceſs, and relieved the young lady from her [...]xiety, who bid him carry her directly to [...]harles ſtreet; and ſhe ſoon found herſelf at the [...]or of a millener's ſhop, where ſhe diſcharged [...]r chairmen; and entering, aſked a young [22] [...] [23] [...] [24] woman, whom ſhe ſaw at work, if her miſtreſs was at home?

The girl deſired her to walk into a parlour, where ſhe was met by an agreeable well-dreſſed woman, who received her with great politeneſs, and deſired to know her commands.

"I have a letter for you," ſaid Henrietta, putting it into her hands, ‘from a young lady, a cuſtomer of your's, the contents will ac⯑quaint you with my buſineſs.’

The millener took the letter, and having read it, returned it again with a ſmile, ſaying, ‘She was not the perſon to whom it was ad⯑dreſſed.’

"No! madam," ſaid miſs Courteney, exceſ⯑ſively ſurpriſed, "Is not your name Egret?

"My name is Eccles, madam," ſaid the millener. "Bleſs me!" cried miſs Courteney, ‘the chairmen have made a miſtake: I bid one of them enquire where Mrs. Egret, a millener, lived, and he was directed hither. I ſhall be obliged to you, purſued Henrietta, if you will let your maid call a chair.’

"To be ſure, madam," ſaid the millener; ‘but do you not know where this Mrs. Egret lives?’

‘I have unfortunately forgot to get a direc⯑tion,’ returned the young lady; ‘but I hope you can inform me.’

[25]"I wiſh I could, madam," ſaid the millener; "but really I know no ſuch perſon as Mrs. Egret." ‘Surely I am the moſt unfortunate creature in the world!’ cried Henrietta.

"I hope not, madam," ſaid Mrs. Eccles, with a look of great complacency: ‘there are more perſons, beſides Mrs. Egret, who would be glad to accommodate you with lodgings. I wiſh mine were good enough for you.’

"Oh! I dare ſay they are good enough," re⯑plied miſs Courteney; ‘but I was recommended to Mrs. Egret, and—’ ‘Pray, madam, walk up, and look at my firſt floor,’ ſaid Mrs. Eccles; and, without waiting for any reply, im⯑mediately led the way.

Henrietta followed in ſuch perplexity of mind, that ſhe hardly knew what ſhe did; and, while the officious millener led her from room to room, expatiating at large upon the conveniencies, miſs Courteney continued ſilent, revolving in her thoughts the dilemma to which ſhe was re⯑duced.

The evening was ſo far advanced, that ſhe could not think of going in queſt of Mrs. Egret, of whom ſhe could get no information here; yet ſhe was not able to reſolve upon taking lodg⯑ings in the houſe of a perſon, to whom ſhe was an abſolute ſtranger: a misfortune which ſhe had [26] vainly endeavoured to avoid by the application ſhe had made to miſs Woodby.

‘I am afraid you don't like this apartment, madam,’ ſaid Mrs. Eccles; who obſerved her look penſive and uneaſy. ‘I have no objec⯑tion to it,’ ſaid miſs Courteney; ‘but that it is rather too good. I do not propoſe to go to a high price; a bedchamber and the uſe of a parlour will be ſufficient for me.’

The millener looked a little diſſatisfied at theſe words, but told her ſhe could accommo⯑date her with a large handſome bedchamber up two pair of ſtairs, but added, that ſhe had no other parlour than that which ſhe kept for her own uſe.

Miſs Courteney deſired to ſee the room, which was indeed very handſome and convenient; and the millener perceiving ſhe liked it, told her, that ſhe ſhould be welcome to the uſe of the dining-room till her firſt floor was let.

The young lady thought this an obliging propoſal; and being pleaſed with the woman's countenance and behaviour, ventured to make an agreement with her, and every thing being ſettled upon very eaſy terms, ‘there is but one difficulty remaining,’ ſaid ſhe, with an en⯑gaging ſmile, ‘and that I know not how we ſhall get over; we are ſtrangers to each other.’

[27]"Oh, madam," interrupted Mrs. Eccles, ‘though it is not my cuſtom to take in lodgers without having a character, yet I can have no ſcruple with regard to a lady of your ap⯑pearance. As for me, I have [...]ed a great many years in this neighbourhood, and am not afraid of having my character enquired into.’

She ſpoke this with a little warmth, which made Henrietta imagine ſhe expected the ſame degree of confidence ſhe had ſhown: ſo making a merit of neceſſity, ſhe appeared very well ſatiſ⯑fied, and immediately took poſſeſſion of her new apartment.

CHAP. V.

MRS. Eccles being ſummoned into her ſhop by a cuſtomer, miſs Courteney deſired her to ſend up pen, ink, and paper, being reſolved to write to miſs Woodby that night, and ac⯑quaint her with the diſappointment ſhe had met with. The maid ſoon appeared with candles and all the materials for writing; delivering at the ſame time her miſtreſs's compliments to the [28] young lady, and a requeſt that ſhe would fa⯑vour her with her company to ſupper. Miſs Courteney promiſed to wait on her, provided ſhe was alone; and, ſitting down, wrote the fol⯑lowing letter to her new friend.

Henrietta had juſt ſealed her letter, when ſomebody tapp'd at her door; ſhe opened it im⯑mediately, and, ſeeing Mrs. Eccles, aſked her pardon for not waiting on her before. Mrs. Eccles told her, that her little ſupper being ready, ſhe came to ſee if ſhe was at leiſure.

Miſs Courteney found the cloth laid in the parlour, and an elegant ſupper was ſerved up. Mrs. Eccles did not fail to apologize frequently for the meanneſs of her entertainment, and was gratified with as many aſſurances from her fair gueſt, that no apology was neceſſary. During the repaſt, Mrs. Eccles entertained her with an account of the neweſt faſhions, the moſt ce⯑lebrated performers of the opera and playhouſes, little pieces or ſcandal, and the like topicks of [30] converſation, which Henrietta had often heard diſcuſſed among her more polite acquaintance, and indeed almoſt the only ones that engage the attention during the receſs of the card-table.

The millener then turning the diſcourſe to the accident that procured her ſo agreeable a lodger, artfully purſued her hints till the young lady found herſelf obliged to ſatisfy in ſome degree her cu⯑rioſity concerning her ſituation.

Though ſhe was naturally communicative, even to a fault; yet ſhe did not think proper to diſcloſe herſelf farther, than to tell her, that ſhe had been obliged to come to London upon ſome affairs of conſequence, which could not be ſettled till the arrival of her brother, who was every day expected from his travels.

This account was ſo near the truth, that miſs Courteney, in the ſimplicity of her own heart, thought it could not fail of being believed. How⯑ever, the millener, who knew the world very well, conceived there was ſomething extraor⯑dinary in the caſe— nothing leſs than a love-intrigue: nor did this ſuſpicion give her any un⯑eaſineſs. She was one of thoſe convenient per⯑ſons with whom a lady, upon paying a certain ſum of money, might lie-in privately, and be properly attended. She made no ſcruple of ac⯑commodating with lodgings a young wife, whoſe [31] huſband, for certain family reaſons, viſits her only now and then; and as ſhe generally ſound her account in ſuch ſort of lodgers, ſhe ſeldom de⯑ſired, and indeed was ſeldom encumbered with any other.

The youth, beauty, and elegance of miſs Courteney, the introductory letter ſo oddly con⯑ceived, her apparent perplexity and concern upon her diſappointment of the lodgings ſhe had ex⯑pected, raiſed ſuſpicions, which the ſtory ſhe now heard, confirmed; and not doubting but this af⯑fair would prove beneficial to her, ſhe exerted her utmoſt endeavours to pleaſe her fair lodger, and engage her to an entire confidence.

When the clock ſtruck eleven, Henrietta roſe up in order to retire to her own chamber, to which Mrs. Eccles officiouſly attended her; having taken leave of her at the door, ſhe bolted it on the in⯑ſide, and, after recommending herſelf to the protection of Heaven, went to bed, but not to reſt. A thouſand diſquietudes kept her waking till the morning, when ſhe ſunk into a ſlumber that laſted till eleven o'clock.

As ſoon as ſhe opened her eyes, ſhe was in⯑formed, by the ſtrong light in her chamber, that the morning was far advanced; and, finding by her watch, which lay on a chair near her bed-ſide, how much ſhe had exceeded her uſual time (for [32] ſhe was a very early riſer) ſhe hurried on her cloaths, and went down ſtairs, being extremely anxious to get her letter ſent to miſs Woodby: ſhe went directly into the ſhop, ſuppoſing ſhe ſhould find Mrs. Eccles there; but was exceſ⯑ſively ſurpriſed to hear from the apprentice, that her miſtreſs was not yet up.

"I ſuppoſe," ſaid miſs Courteney, ‘ſhe reſted no better than myſelf laſt night, which was the cauſe of my lying ſo late this morning.’

"La! ma'am," replied the girl, ‘my miſ⯑treſs is never up before eleven or twelve.’ "Indeed!" ſaid the young lady, diſſembling her concern at a circumſtance which gave her no favourable opinion of her landlady. ‘But, madam,’ added the girl, ‘you may have your breakfaſt whenever you pleaſe to order it.’ She then called the maid, whom miſs Courteney ordered to fetch a porter, being de⯑termined to have her letter delivered into miſs Woodby's own hands, if poſſible. A porter was ſoon found, who undertook to carry the letter to Hammerſmith as directed, and this affair being diſpatched, Henrietta ordered ſome coffee for her breakfaſt, and retired to her own chamber.

CHAP. VI.

IN about a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Eccles appeared, in a long looſe linen ſack, being her morning dreſs, and inſiſted upon miſs Cour⯑teney's breakfaſting with her; who at length conſented, having agreed to pay at the rate of a guinea a week for her board, during the time ſhe ſtayed, which ſhe inly determined ſhould not be long.

After the tea-things were removed, ſhe went into the ſhop to make a purchaſe of ſome rib⯑bons and gloves; and while ſhe was amuſing herſelf with looking over a great variety of fa⯑ſhionable trifles, which the apprentice offici⯑ouſly ſhewed her, a young gentleman, who had been attracted by her appearance, came into the ſhop, and aſked to look at ſome Dreſden ruffles. Henrietta, bluſhing at the earneſtneſs with which he gazed on her, retired immediately, telling Mrs. Eccles, as ſhe paſſed through the parlour, that there was a gentleman in the ſhop. The millener, upon this information, lifted up her hands mechanically to her head to adjuſt her hair, [34] and haſtened to attend her cuſtomer; while her fair lodger, taking a book that lay in the window, went to her own apartment, with an intention to amuſe herſelf with reading till the long'd-for return of her meſſenger.

The book however, which was a volume of the new Atalantis, did not ſuit her taſte; ſhe threw it away, and abandoned herſelf to her own me⯑lancholy reflections, which were at length inter⯑rupted by her landlady, who entered the room with a ſmiling air, telling her, ſhe had had a very good cuſtomer.

"I am glad of it," ſaid Henrietta.

"Truly," ſaid Mrs. Eccles, ‘I believe I am obliged to your fair face for my good luck this morning.’ "How!—" returned the young lady, with a countenance graver than before.

"Nay, never wonder at it," ſaid Mrs. Eccles," ‘the gentleman laid out twelve guineas with me; but I don't believe he wanted the things he bought. You were the loadſtone,’ added ſhe ſmartly, ‘that drew him into the ſhop. —He aſked me a hundred queſtions about you.’

"I am ſorry for it," ſaid miſs Courteney, "I wiſh I had not been in the ſhop." ‘And why ſorry, pray,’ reſumed Mrs. Eccles, ‘I warrant you are ſorry you are handſome too— [35] However, I have another thing to tell you, to increaſe your ſorrow, and that is, that you have certainly made a conqueſt of this fine ſpark; and, to overwhelm you with afflic⯑tion,’ purſued ſhe, laughing, ‘I verily be⯑lieve he is a man of quality.’

"Do you know him then," ſaid miſs Cour⯑teney; who could not help ſmiling a little at her vivacity.

‘I only judge by his appearance and man⯑ners,’ replied Mrs. Eccles, ‘that he is a man of rank; but I dare ſay, we ſhall hear more from him.’ "Sure— Mrs. Eccles!" interrupted miſs Courteney, with ſome emo⯑tion.

"Nay, nay, child," exclaimed Mrs. Eccles, ‘don't put yourſelf into a flurry; I don't know that I ſhall ever ſee him again— But, pray what book have you got here?’ ‘One I found in your parlour,’ ſaid miſs Courteney. "Oh, I ſee what it is," cried Mrs. Eccles, opening it; ‘it is a charming pretty book. If you love reading, miſs, I can furniſh you with books; I have a very pretty collection— I ſhould be glad to ſee your collection,’ ſaid the young lady, who was apprehenſive of her re⯑newing a converſation that had been very diſ⯑agreeable to her.

[36]Mrs. Eccles immediately led her into a little room on the ſame floor, and opening a cloſet, in which there were about two dozen books ranged on a ſhelf, ſhe bid her take her choice, for there was variety enough.

Henrietta ſoon examined the ſo much boaſted collection, which ſhe found chiefly conſiſted of novels and plays. "Well," ſaid Mrs. Eccles, ‘how do you like my books? are they not prettily choſen?’

"I aſſure you," replied ſhe, taking down one, ‘you choſe very well when you choſe this; for it is one of the moſt exquiſite pieces of humour in our language.’ ‘I knew you would approve of my taſte,’ ſaid Mrs. Eccles, ‘but what have you got?— O! the Adven⯑tures of Joſeph Andrews — Yes; that is a very pretty book, to be ſure!— but there is Mrs. Haywood's Novels, did you ever read them?— Oh! they are the fineſt love-ſick, paſſionate ſtories; I aſſure you, you'll like them vaſtly: pray, take a volume of Haywood upon my recommendation.’ "Excuſe me," ſaid Henrietta, ‘I am very well ſatisfied with what I have; I have read this book three times already, and yet I aſſure you, I ſhall begin it again with as much eagerneſs and de⯑light as I did at firſt.’

[37]"Well, as you pleaſe," ſaid Mrs. Eccles, leaving her at the door of her own chamber, ‘I won't diſturb you till dinner is ready.’

Miſs Courteney ſat down to her book, which agreeably engaged her attention, till ſhe was in⯑terrupted with the pleaſing news of her porter's being returned: ſhe flew down ſtairs; he deli⯑vered her a letter, the ſeal of which ſhe eagerly broke, and found it as follows.

The hopes of ſeeing her friend, and being ſettled in more agreeable lodgings, gave Hen⯑rietta [38] ſuch a flow of ſpirits, that when ſhe was ſummoned to dinner by her landlady, ſhe ap⯑peared leſs reſerved than uſual, and even kept up the converſation with ſome kind of chearful⯑neſs. Mrs. Eccles, finding her in ſo good a humour, introduced the ſubject which ran moſt in her head—The fine young gentleman, who had been her cuſtomer in the morning, was praiſed in raptures of admiration— ſo genteel, ſo well bred— ſuch ſparkling eyes, ſuch an air of diſtinction— Every now and then exclaim⯑ing— ‘Well, you have certainly made a con⯑queſt of him— we ſhall ſee him again, never fear— he'll find his way here again, I warrant him.’

Miſs Courteney, to put an end to this diſ⯑courſe, told her landlady, that ſhe expected a lady to drink tea with her that afternoon; Mrs. Eccles immediately gave orders for the dining-room to be put in order, and thither miſs Cour⯑teney retired in expectation of her viſiter. At ſix o'clock a footman's rap at the door anounced the arrival of miſs Woodby; Henrietta ran to the head of the ſtairs to receive her.

"O Heavens! my dear creature" cried miſs Woodby, ‘What trouble have I been in upon your account!— but even the diſquiets of friendſhip are pleaſing; I would not be inſen⯑ſible [39] of that charming paſſion, nor without an object of it for the world.’

Miſs Courteney thanked her in very obliging terms, while her ſentimental friend adjuſted her dreſs in the glaſs, and then throwing herſelf into a chair, declared that ſhe was all impatience to hear her hiſtory.

"Permit me," ſaid miſs Courteney, ‘to in⯑form you firſt, that I am not eaſy here, I do not greatly like my landlady, and I wiſh I could remove this very night.’ Miſs Woodby told her it was impoſſible, becauſe ſhe had not yet ſeen Mrs. Egret, but that ſhe would go to her in the morning, and prepare her for her coming. Henrietta, being now at eaſe, com⯑plied with her friend's requeſt, and began her little hiſtory in this manner.

CHAP. VII.

‘IT is no wonder, my dear miſs Woodby, that at theſe early years I am precipitated into diſtreſſes and dangers; my very birth was a misfortune to my parents, and intailed upon them thoſe miſeries which began by their unhappy paſſion.’

‘My father was the youngeſt of three bro⯑thers, but ſo great a favourite of his father the earl of —, that it was thought he would make his fortune very conſiderable, having a very large eſtate, and a very lucrative employ⯑ment, out of which he every year laid by large ſums to provide for his younger ſons, of whom my father, as I have already ſaid, was the beſt beloved.’

‘It happened one day, that the widow of an officer in the army came to ſolicit the earl's intereſt towards getting her a penſion. She was accompanied by her daughter, a young woman about ſixteen years of age, and who muſt at that time have been exquiſitely handſome, ſince, after a long ſeries of trou⯑bles, [41] and in an age more advanced, ſhe ap⯑peared to me one of the moſt beautiful women in the world.’

‘The widow, by a certain method of per⯑ſuaſion which operates powerfully on the do⯑meſticks of men in place, got her petition ſent up to the earl. It imported that her huſband, after having ſerved near fifty years in the army, had obtained leave to ſell his commiſ⯑ſion for the benefit of his wife and child; that the money ariſing from it had been de⯑poſited in the hands of an agent who had broke a few months afterwards, by which unhappy accident all the money was loſt, and this loſs had ſo greatly affected the old gentle⯑man, that he died a few weeks afterwards, leaving his wife and child wholly unprovided for, and made wretched by thoſe very means that were calculated to ſecure them a gen⯑teel ſubſiſtence, ſince by the ſale of her huſ⯑band's commiſſion, the widow was no longer intitled to a penſion, which however ſhe hoped to obtain, in conſideration of his long ſer⯑vices, and the peculiar circumſtances of her misfortune.’

‘The widow, who knew it was in this no⯑bleman's power to put her immediately upon the liſt of penſions, conceived great hopes of [42] the ſucceſs of her application, when, after waiting two hours in the hall, ſhe was or⯑dered to atttend his lordſhip in his li⯑brary.’

‘The nobleman received her with civility enough; but his firſt words deſtroyed thoſe expectations with which ſhe had flattered her⯑ſelf.’

‘I am ſorry it is not in my power to do you any ſervice, ſaid he; your huſband ſold out, therefore you have no right to the penſion. I pity your misfortune; but in this caſe there is nothing to be done.’

‘The widow was a woman of ſenſe and breeding: ſhe was ſenſible that the earl paid no regard to her plea, otherwiſe he would not have urged that as an argument againſt granting her petition, without which no peti⯑tion would have been neceſſary: intreaties ſhe found would be fruitleſs, therefore ſhe would not deſcend to the meanneſs of a ſup⯑pliant, but curtſy'd in ſilent anguiſh, and withdrew.’

‘My father, who was preſent at this ſcene, and who had beheld the decent ſorrow of the mother with reverence, the innocent beauty of the daughter with tender admiration, im⯑pelled by an emotion which yet he knew not [43] the cauſe of, haſtily followed them, and of⯑fered his hand to the widow to lead her down ſtairs.’

‘She, who from a natural dignity of ſenti⯑ment, had been enabled to endure the ſuper⯑cilious behaviour of the father without be⯑traying any ſigns of diſcompoſure, burſt into tears at this inſtance of unexpected attention and reſpect in the ſon.’

‘Mr. Courteney, as he led her down ſtairs, had his eyes inceſſantly turned towards the young lady, who followed bluſhing to ſee herſelf ſo earneſtly beheld. He found they had not a coach waiting for them, he or⯑dered a ſervant to call one; and in the mean time deſired they would walk into a parlour, where he took occaſion to expreſs his concern to the widow for the diſappointment ſhe had met with; but aſſured her, that he would employ his good offices in her favour, and from the influence he had over his father, hoped he ſhould ſucceed. He then deſired to know where he might wait upon her, in caſe he had any good news to bring her.’

‘The widow, charmed with his politeneſs, aſtoniſhed at his kindneſs, and full of hope and pleaſing expectation, gave him a direction in writing, which ſhe had brought with her.’

[44] ‘Mr. Courteney received it, bowing low, as if ſhe had conferred a favour on him; a favour it was indeed, for, by this time, he was loſt in love for the charming daughter, whoſe looks diſcovered ſuch ſoft ſenſibility of her ſituation, ſuch conſcious dignity, which misfortune could not impair; ſuch calm reſig⯑nation, as if, ſuperior to her woes, that her beauty ſeemed her leaſt perfection; and he was more captivated by the graces of her mind that ſhone out in her perſon, than with her lovely perſon itſelf.’

‘The coach was now come; he ſighed when he took leave of them, rivetting his eyes on the young charmer, who modeſtly looked down, unable to bear his ardent glances. Again be aſſured the widow of his ſervices; and, ſuddenly recollecting himſelf, he put a purſe into her hand, begging her to accept that trifle as an earneſt of his friendſhip.’

‘The lady was ſo much ſurpriſed at his be⯑haviour, that ſhe was at a loſs in what manner to anſwer him; and, before ſhe could form any, ſhe found herſelf in the coach, to which he had accompanied her with great reſpect. When the coach drove from the door, ſhe exa⯑mined the contents of the purſe, and found five and twenty guineas in it: a preſent, which, if it [45] had been leſs, would have mortified her pride, and, being ſo conſiderable, alarmed her pru⯑dence. She recollected every circumſtance of the young gentleman's behaviour, and all con⯑tributed to perſuade her, that he was actuated by ſome motive more forcible than mere com⯑paſſion.’

‘She remembered that ſhe had caught him gazing earneſtly at her daughter; ſhe reproach⯑ed herſelf for taking her with her, for accept⯑ing the money, for giving a direction. She dreaded the conſequence of having expoſed her child to the attempts of a young man formed to pleaſe, and by his rank and fortune enabled to purſue every method that could gratify his paſſions. She began now to be ſolicitous about the effect ſuch uncommon generoſity had on the mind of her daughter. She aſked her what ſhe thought of the gentleman who ſo kindly intereſted himſelf in their affairs, notwithſtanding the cruel denial his father had given?’

‘Miſs, whoſe gratitude had with difficulty been reſtrained from riſing from her heart to her tongue, eagerly ſeized this opportunity to praiſe their benefactor. Her expreſſions were ſo lively, ſhe ſhowed ſo tender a ſenſibility of his kindneſs, ſuch a bluſhing approbation [46] of his perſon and manners, that the good widow thought proper to check her vivacity by a little reproof, and attributed all the re⯑ſpect he had ſhown them to his natural polite⯑neſs, and his offers of ſervice, and the preſent he had forced on her, to a ſudden ſally of compaſſion which young unexperienced per⯑ſons are liable to. However, her apprehen⯑ſions were now increaſed; and when Mr. Courteney came to ſee her, in conſequence of his promiſe, which was two days after wards, ſhe had already taken her reſolution.’

‘She took care that her daughter ſhould not be in the way when he ſent up his name; and notwithſtanding the politeneſs with which he accoſted her, ſhe obſerved that he was diſ⯑appointed, and that his eyes involuntarily ſought out an object which he more wiſhed to ſee than her.’

‘I don't know whether theſe little particu⯑lars may not ſeem tedious to you, my dear miſs Woodby; but I have often heard my mother repeat them with delight; declaring that theſe firſt tokens of my father's affection for her made ſo deep an impreſſion on her heart, fluctuating, as it then was, between hope and fear, that ſhe ever retained the moſt lively remembrance of them, and could never [47] relate them without feeling in ſome degree the ſame pleaſing emotions with which ſhe was at that time agitated.’

‘Mr. Courteney began the converſation with aſſuring the widow, that he had been mindful of her affairs; that his ſolicitations had not yet indeed had the deſired effect; but that he hoped ſhortly to bring her better news. The widow thanked him with great politeneſs for his kind interpoſition in her favour, which ſhe declared would always have a claim to her ſincereſt gratitude, whether he ſucceeded or not in his applications. She then drew the purſe out of her pocket, and putting it reſpect⯑fully into his hands, told him, that not being in any immediate neceſſity, ſhe begged he would not take it ill if ſhe declined accepting a preſent which would lay her under an unre⯑turnable obligation.’

‘Mr. Courteney bluſhed with ſurprize and diſappoimment— but the dignity with which ſhe looked and ſpoke, making it impoſſible for him to preſs her any farther, he received the money back again with a low bow, apo⯑logizing at the ſame time for the liberty he had taken.’

‘The widow, ſeeing him diſconcerted, po⯑litely recommended her intereſts to him; and [48] Mr. Courteney, charmed that ſhe would allow him to be her friend on any terms, retired with a promiſe that he would take as much care of them as of his own.’

"This interview," continued Henrietta, ‘confirmed the widow in her ſuſpicions, that her daughter was not indifferent to their new benefactor— He had obſerved her ſcrupulous reſerve with regard to the young beauty, and hoped to remove it by affecting a total neg⯑lect of her; ſo that he did not even enquire how ſhe did.— Whatever is done with de⯑ſign is always overdone: the widow was per⯑ſuaded that a man of Mr. Courteney's good breeding would not have paſſed over one of the common forms of politeneſs, but to an⯑ſwer ſome ſecret purpoſe. Her vigilance in⯑creaſed in proportion to her fears; and al⯑though he made her ſeveral viſits under pre⯑tence of enquiring more minutely into the circumſtances of her caſe, yet he never was ſo fortunate as to find her daughter with her.’

‘This conduct, while it ſtimulated his paſ⯑ſion, gave him a high opinion of the virtue and prudence of her, who, in ſuch unhappy circumſtances, ſhowed ſuch extreme attention to the honour and reputation of her child Hitherto he had not been at the trouble to [49] examine his own views and deſigns upon this young beauty. Hurried away by the violence of his paſſion, he had aſſiduouſly ſought op⯑portunities of ſeeing and converſing with her; but the difficulties he met with made him look into his own heart, that he might know if he was ſtill ſufficient maſter of it to give over a purſuit which was likely to prove fruitleſs.’

‘Amazed to find that what he took for a tranſient inclination, was a paſſion immove⯑ably fixed; that he had formed reſolutions, when he believed he had only entertained de⯑ſires; that the whole happineſs and miſery of his life was in the power of a young woman, deſtitute of friends, fortune, hopes and expec⯑tations, and rich only in beauty and virtue— for virtuous he was ſure ſhe muſt be, under the care of ſo wiſe and prudent a mother. He was alarmed at his own condition; dreaded the conſequences of a paſſion ſo placed as that it could never procure the ſanction of his fa⯑ther's conſent, and reſolved never more to ex⯑poſe himſelf to the danger of ſeeing her.’

‘However, he did not fail to ſolicit his fa⯑ther very earneſtly in behalf of the unfortunate widow. The carl, who had taken notice of his officious reſpect the day ſhe was introduced to him, and attributed it rather to the beauty [50] of the daughter than any ſentiment of com⯑paſſion, began to be uneaſy at his ſo frequently preſſing him on that ſubject, and forbad him to mention it any more.’

‘Mr. Courteney was obliged to be ſilent, leſt he ſhould confirm thoſe ſuſpicions which he ſaw his father had conceived; and finding his mind in a very uneaſy ſtate, he hoped that, by removing himſelf to a greater diſtance from the object he loved, he ſhould remove the thoughts of her likewiſe; he obtained his fa⯑ther's content to his retiring for a few weeks to their ſeat in the country, under pretence of a ſlight indiſpoſition; but he could not re⯑ſolve to go without endeavouring once more to force a preſent upon the widow, which might prevent her being expoſed to any diſtreſs during his abſence.’

‘He therefore wrote to her, and acquaint⯑ing her with the ill ſucceſs of his mediation with his father, expreſſed the higheſt concern for it, and aſſured her that nothing could al⯑leviate it but her acceptance of the bank note which he incloſed, and which was for fifty pounds: he told her, he was going into the country, that ſhe might not ſuppoſe he had any deſign of inducing her by ſuch a preſent [51] to admit his viſits; and concluded with aſ⯑ſuring her, that ſhe might at all times com⯑mand his ſervices, and rely on his friend⯑ſhip.’

‘He did not ſend away this letter till he was ready to take horſe; and being now more compoſed, from the belief that he had ſilenced the ſcruples of this good woman, and ſecured her and her lovely daughter from any imme⯑diate neceſſity, he purſued his journey— full of pleaſing reflections on the diſintereſtedneſs of his love.’

CHAP. VIII.

‘ABSENCE (ſays a certain writer) in⯑creaſes violent paſſions, and cures mo⯑derate ones; juſt as the wind extinguiſhes a ſmall flame, while it makes a great one burn more fiercely. Mr. Courteney's paſſion was of this kind; he had loved with violence from the moment he began to love. In vain he had recourſe to books, to company, to field ſports, and rural amuſements; it was not poſ⯑ſible for him to call off his thoughts a moment from that object from whom he fled with ſuch [52] care. Two months he wore away in a con⯑ſtant perturbation of mind, ſtill flattering him⯑ſelf that he was nearer his cure, while his diſ⯑eaſe gathered ſtrength every day.’

‘It happened that one evening he fell into company with ſome officers, whoſe regiment was quartered in that part of the country; and one of them mentioned colonel Carlton, and the unhappy ſituation his widow and daughter were left in.’

‘Mr. Courteney, rouzed to attention by that name ſo dear to him, pretended to be wholly ignorant of thoſe ladies caſe, that be might indulge himſelf in the pleaſure of talking [...] her he loved.’

‘The officer gave him a circumſtantial de⯑tail of what he knew as well as himſelf; con⯑cluding with many commendations of Mrs. Carlton's good ſenſe, prudence, and virtue; and ſuch rapturous praiſes of the young lady's beauty and uncommon qualifications at ſuch early years, that Mr. Courteney, for the firſt time ſenſible of the tortures of jealouſy, could with difficulty conceal his emotions.’

‘You ſpeak ſo feelingly, ſaid a gentleman i [...] company, of this young lady's perfections, that I fancy you are in love with her: come, he [...] is her health; is it to be a match▪’

[53] ‘I ſhould be but too happy in ſuch a wife, replied the officer; but ſhe deſerves a better huſband: it is not for a poor lieutenant, added he, ſmiling, to marry for love; but if I was a man of fortune, I would prefer miſs Carl⯑ton to all the women I have ever ſeen.’

‘Mr. Courteney afterwards declared that he ſuffered inconceivable anguiſh during this con⯑verſation. He quitted the company with ſome precipitation; and when he was at liberty to reflect, he reproached himſelf a thouſand times for his folly in leaving ſuch a treaſure for an⯑other to obtain. Every man he thought would look upon miſs Carlton with the ſame eyes as that young officer; and among them might not one be found bleſt with a fortune to make her happy, and above all narrow con⯑ſiderations which could hinder him from mak⯑ing himſelf ſo?’

‘Reſolutions are eaſily formed when the heart ſuggeſts them. Mr. Courteney, who had ſo long fluctuated between his paſſion and his prudence, was, by the fear of loſing what he loved, determined in an inſtant to put it paſt the poſſibility of loſing her. His father's anger, which at firſt appeared ſo formidable to him, was now conſidered as a trifle that would be eaſily got over: he was not going [54] to introduce any ſtale miſtreſs into a noble family, nor to give a comedian or ſinger for a ſiſter to his ſiſters, and a daughter to his mo⯑ther; alliances ſo much in faſhion with the preſent race of nobility and people of fortune: in miſs Carlton he ſhould marry birth, beauty, virtue, every perfection but riches, but un⯑happily that, in the eſtimation of his father, was worth them all.’

‘His fortune indeed was undetermined; it might be great, it might be very inconſidera⯑ble, ſince it depended upon the will of his father. His father would never conſent to his marriage with miſs Carlton; but though diſ⯑obliged, yet loving him as he did, was it likely that he would always continue inexorable! Beſides he had a certain, though a remote pro⯑ſpect of a good eſtate, to which he was to ſucceed at the death of a relation, who was old, and had been married twenty years without having ever had a child.’

‘Should he find it impoſſible to reconcile his father to his marriage, yet he was ſecure at leaſt of a genteel proviſion; but with ſuch ex⯑cellencies as miſs Carlton was poſſeſſed of, how could it be imagined that ſhe ſhould not in time conciliate his father's affections, and make him approve of his choice?’

[55] ‘There is no logick, my dear miſs Woodby, like the logick of the heart. Mr. Courteney, as is uſual on ſuch occaſions, having taken his reſolution before he reaſoned upon the matter, reaſoned afterwards in ſuch a manner as to be ſoon perſuaded his reſolution was right.’

‘Early the next morning he ordered his horſes to be made ready, and he returned to London with all imaginable expedition. He alighted at the houſe of a friend, where he diſ⯑miſſed his ſervants and horſes, and then taking a hackney coach, was driven to the ſtreet in which Mrs. Carlton lived. Upon ſtopping at the houſe, and enquiring for Mrs. Carlton, he was told that ſhe had left it five weeks ago, and being greatly indiſpoſed, had taken lodg⯑ings at Chelſea for the air.’

‘Mr. Courteney, who now thought every moment an age till he ſaw miſs Carlton, and acquainted her with his paſſion and his honourable intentions, procured as full a di⯑rection as could be given him; but notwith⯑ſtanding his impatience to be with his miſ⯑treſs, he obeyed the dictates of his duty, in firſt going home to pay his reſpects to his father.’

[56] ‘The earl received him a little coldly; an expreſſion of diſpleaſure was on his counte⯑nance, which however wore off by degrees, as he enquired concerning his health, his ſtudies and amuſements, during his abſence. At length ſeeming to recollect ſomething, he went to his cabinet, took out a letter, the ſeal of which had been broke, and delivered it into his ſon's hand, aſſuming the ſame angry coun⯑tenance as before.’

‘Mr. Courteney, not able to imagine what all this meant, opened the letter haſtily, and found it was from Mrs. Carlton, dated the very day of his departure, and in it was in⯑cloſed the bank note he had ſent: the purpo [...] of her letter was to refuſe in a genteel but ſteady manner all pecuniary aſſiſtance from him; however ſhe thanked him for his [...]i⯑lities, and acknowledged herſelf greatly obliged to him.’

‘When Mr. Courteney had read this letter, which he did with much confuſion, the ear [...] aſked him ſternly, what was his deſign by en⯑gaging in ſuch a commerce? You are in love with the daughter, added he, no doubt —but if you corrupt her, you are not an ho⯑neſt man; if you marry her, you are no longer my ſon.’

[57] ‘He left him as he pronounced theſe words; and Mr. Courteney, who, while he beheld it at a diſtance, thought his father's diſpleaſure might be borne with, was overwhelmed with the firſt effects of it, and relapſed into all his for⯑mer doubts, anxiety, and irreſolution.’

‘He retired to his own chamber to conſider on what he ought to do; but unable to bear the cruel war which ſuch contrary intereſts, ſuch oppoſite wiſhes, ſuch perplexed deſigns, raiſed in his mind, he hurried out of the houſe to loſe reflection in a variety of objects, and took his way to the Park.’

‘He walked down the Mall, it was crouded with company which did not in the leaſt en⯑gage his attention; he continued his walk, and, finding himſelf at Buckingham-gate, his ſteps mechanically purſued the road that led to Chelſea.’

‘As ſoon as he ſaw himſelf near the place where his miſtreſs reſided, all other thoughts were abſorbed in the tranſporting reflection, that he ſhould ſee her within a few moments; his father's threats were forgot, the loſs of his ſavour filled him with no uneaſy apprehen⯑ſions. To how many revolutions is the hu⯑man mind ſubject, when paſſion has aſſumed the reins of government which reaſon ought [58] to hold! Mr. Courteney had almoſt imper⯑ceptibly to himſelf reſumed his firſt deſign of offering his hand to miſs Carlton.’

‘With very little difficulty he found out the houſe where her mother and ſhe lodged; the door was opened to him by a girl, who, upon his enquiring if Mrs. Carlton was at home, told him ſhe was ſick in bed, and, ſhowing him into a little parlour, ran up ſtairs to ac⯑quaint miſs, as he ſuppoſed, that a gentleman was there.’

‘In a few minutes a venerable old woman appeared, who had ſo fixed a concern upon her countenance, that Mr. Courteney, ſhift⯑ing his thoughts from the illneſs of the mo⯑ther to the apprehenſion of ſome poſſible miſ⯑fortune to the daughter, for love if it hopes all, fears all likewiſe, aſked her with great emo⯑tion, if any thing extraordinary had happened to the ladies?’

‘The good woman, pleaſed with his ſolici⯑tude, which ſhe thought promiſed ſome re⯑lief, told him plainly, that Mrs. Carlton was in the utmoſt diſtreſs; that ſhe had been ill ſeveral weeks; that ſhe had not been able to procure proper advice; and added ſhe, burſt⯑ing into tears, ſhe has even wanted common neceſſaries.’

[59] ‘O my God! exclaimed Mr. Courteney, with a deep ſigh; but miſs—what is become of miſs? Alas! ſir, replied the old woman, the dear child is almoſt dead with fatigue and grief; ſhe has watched by her mother theſe ten nights ſucceſſively, there is no perſuading her to quit her for a moment. I left her in an agony of ſorrow, for it is believed poor Mrs. Carlton cannot live three days.’

‘Conduct me to her, cried Mr. Courteney eagerly; I may poſſibly be able to comfort her; let me ſee her, I conjure you, imme⯑diately.’

‘Stay a moment, ſir, ſaid the old woman, ſtopping him, for he was making towards the door; I will go up firſt and inform the ladies. There is no occaſion for that, ſaid Mr. Cour⯑teney, Mrs. Carlton knows me very well; ſhe will not I am ſure be ſorry to ſee me, I have ſomething to ſay to her.’

‘The good woman, ſeeing his obſtinacy, permitted him to follow her up ſtairs; ſhe gently opened the chamber-door, and, ap⯑proaching the bed where the ſick lady lay, told her there was a friend of her's, who de⯑ſired to ſee her. Mr. Courteney entered that moment, and beheld a ſight which called for [60] more fortitude than he was at that time po⯑ſeſſed of to ſupport without tears.’

‘Mrs. Carlton lay extended on her bed, ſup⯑ported by a heighth of cuſhions to facilitate her breathing, which ſhe ſeemed to do with great difficulty. Death appeared in her lan⯑guid countenance; and an expreſſion of the tender anguiſh of a mother for the child whom ſhe was ſo ſoon to leave expoſed to the inſults of a barbarous world, mixed with the pious reſignation of a chriſtian, was impreſſed in every line of it.’

‘Her daughter was kneeling at the bed-ſide, and held one of her mother's hands, which ſhe was bending over in an agony of grief: upon hearing what the old woman ſaid, ſhe raiſed her head; and, directing her ſtream⯑ing eyes to the place where Mr. Courteney ſtood, ſhowed him a face pale, emaciated, but lovely ſtill; at ſight of him a faint bluſh overſpread her cheeks. It is Mr. Courteney, my dear mamma, ſaid ſhe.’

‘Oh! ſir, ſaid Mrs. Carlton, perceiving him, you are very good to ſeek out affliction thus. I ſhall ſhortly be paſt all my cares; but what will become of this poor helpleſs orphan? The tears that ſtreamed from her eyes prevented her further utterance.’

[61] ‘Mr. Courteney threw himſelf on his knees at the bed-ſide, and almoſt ſobbing with the violence of his emotions at this affecting lan⯑guage, Oh! madam, ſaid he, What muſt you not have ſuffered? why would you not accept what little aſſiſtance it was in my power to offer you. I know your delicate ſcruples— I come to beg you will give yourſelf a right to all my future ſervices— I have ſomething to communicate to you— But, added he, look⯑ing at the old woman who had introduced him, we are not alone.’

‘Speak freely, ſir, ſaid Mrs. Carlton, this good woman is my daughter's nurſe; ſhe knows all my affairs; I am much indebted to her kindneſs and affection for my child.’

‘What I have to ſay, proceeded Mr. Cour⯑teney, relates to that dear, that lovely daugh⯑ter: I loved her from the firſt moment I ſaw her; ſuch innocence, ſuch beauty, could not ſuggeſt any impure deſire. As ſoon as I knew the force of my paſſion, which abſence firſt made me know, I fixed its purpoſe. Permit me to offer her my hand; I cannot be happy without her.’

‘What do you ſay, ſir? ſaid Mrs. Carlton, exceſſively ſurpriſed: would you marry my daughter? But after a little pauſe, No, pur⯑ſued [62] ſhe, this can never be, your father will not conſent to it.’

‘I own freely to you, madam, ſaid Mr. Courteney, that I have no hopes of gaining my father's conſent; but when the affai [...] i [...] irretrievable, he will be ſoftened, I am ſure he will. Let not this ſcruple hinder you from giving your daughter a protector. Surely, ſaid Mrs. Carlton, lifting up her eyes, the hand of Providence is here; and it would be im⯑pious to oppoſe its will. You have my con⯑ſent, ſir, ſaid ſhe to Mr. Courteney; would it pleaſed God that you had his alſo, whom it is your duty to conſult on this occaſion, and to obey if you can.’

‘Mr. Courteney aſſured her he would ſolicit his father's conſent; but that he could not be happy without miſs Carlton, and was already determined.’

‘That young lady had retired into another room at the beginning of this diſcourſe, in perturbations which may be better imagined than deſcribed. Mr. Courteney, by her mo⯑ther's permiſſion, attended her: he approached her with a timidity, which, the inequality of their circumſtances conſidered, may ſeem ſur⯑priſing; but thoſe who know the nature of a ſincere and violent paſſion, will eaſily account [63] for it. For fear, ſays an elegant writer, al⯑ways accompanies love when it is great, as flames burn higheſt when they tremble moſt. He took her hand, and kiſſing it reſpectfully, told her that Mrs. Carlton had begun his feli⯑city, by permitting him to offer himſelf to her acceptance as a huſband, but that ſhe only could complete it by her conſent.’

‘Miſs Carlton bluſhed, turned pale, and bluſhed again: at length ſhe replied, that ſhe had no other will than her mother's. But this offer, added ſhe, in an accent that expreſſed at once her ſurpriſe and grati⯑tude, is ſo generous, ſo unexpected, ſo un⯑hoped for— The laſt words ſeemed to eſcape her; ſhe bluſhed more than before. Mr. Courteney took in all their tender meaning: he kiſſed her hand again in a rapture of joy, and was beginning to make her ſome paſſionate declarations, when they heard the nurſe cry⯑ing out for help.’

‘Surpriſe and joy at what had ſo lately happened, operated ſo powerfully on Mrs. Carlton's almoſt exhauſted ſpirits, that ſhe had fallen into a fainting fit. Miſs Carlton eagerly flew to her aſſiſtance, Mr. Courteney followed her with an anxious concern. As ſoon as ſhe recovered, he told her he would inſtantly re⯑turn [64] to London and diſpatch a phyſician to attend her, and would be with her again the next evening.’

‘He took a tender farewel of his miſtre [...] and calling the nurſe aſide, gave her twenty guineas to provide whatever was wanting, and haſtened back to London.’

CHAP. IX.

‘MR. Courteney's firſt care was to ſend a phyſician to the ſick lady; and that performed, he deliberated in what manner he ſhould acquaint his father with his intention. He knew him too well to hope for his con⯑ſent to his marriage with miſs Ca [...]n, and he had not courage enough to ſtand the re⯑proaches of a parent, whom he was predeter⯑mined to diſobey. He choſe therefore o [...] write to him, ſuppoſing he ſhould, when un⯑awed by his preſence, be able to find argu⯑ments ſtrong enough to make ſome impreſſion on his mind, and to plead his excuſe.’

‘As he dreaded extremely a private inter⯑view with his father, he was glad to find at [65] his return home, that a great deal of company was expected that evening; he did not ap⯑pear till they were all met, having purpoſely waſted a good deal of time in dreſſing. The earl was ſtill ruffled with what had paſſed be⯑fore between him and his ſon; and Mr. Cour⯑teney obſerved that his looks and behaviour were leſs kind than uſual.’

‘As ſoon as he retired to his apartment, in⯑ſtead of going to bed, he ſat down to compoſe a letter to his father. He began with the higheſt expreſſions of grief for having by an ir⯑reſiſtable impulſe engaged his affections with⯑out his concurrence; he juſtified his choice by every argument that love could ſuggeſt in fa⯑vour of the beloved object: he implored the continuance of his father's affection; and promiſed in every future action the moſt per⯑fect ſubmiſſion and obedience.’

‘This difficult taſk performed, he found his mind much eaſier and compoſed, as if in rea⯑lity he had obtained the pardon he had ſoli⯑cited, and now reſigned himſelf to all the pleaſing reveries of ſucceſsful love.’

‘After a few hours reſt, he roſe under pre⯑tence of going out to ride; and, leaving orders with a ſervant to deliver his letter to [66] his father at his hour of dreſſing, he went im⯑mediately to the Commons, procured a li⯑cence, and flew to Chelſea; he found Mrs. Carlton much worſe than when he left her; yet joy at ſeeing him again ſeemed to give her new life and ſpirits. She called him to he [...] bed-ſide; he acquainted her with what he had done; ſhe had ſome ſcruples, but the fear of leaving her daughter deſtitute overbalanced them all.’

‘I am dying, ſaid ſhe, preſſing his hand; the phyſician you ſent was too ſincere to flatter me. I die contented, ſince I leave my child under your protection. Let the ceremony be performed in my preſence; after that is over I ſhall have no farther buſineſs with the world. Miſs Carlton, drowned in tears, and almoſt ſinking under the violence of her grief, was with diffi⯑culty perſuaded to give her hand to her lover at ſo ſhocking a time; but her dy⯑ing mother conjured her to give her that laſt ſatisfaction.— A clergyman was in⯑ſtantly provided by the faithful nurſe: the clerk acted as father to the weeping bride; and Mr. Courteney's ſervant and the good nurſe were witneſſes. — Never ſure was there a more melancholy wedding — the [67] bridegroom's joy was checked by ſimpathiſ⯑ing concern—the bride's tender ſenſibility loſt in agoniſing woe—the ſervice was performed with the ſolemn ſadneſs of a funeral.’

‘As ſoon as it was over, Mrs. Carlton col⯑lected all her remaining ſtrength and ſpirits, to pronounce a bleſſing on the new-wedded pair; and ſtraining her daughter with a weak em⯑brace, declared that ſhe was now eaſy, and ſhould die in peace. Mr. Courteney made a genteel preſent to the clergyman and the clerk, and diſmiſſed them: he took an affec⯑tionate leave of Mrs. Carlton, who deſired to be left to her private devotions; and earneſtly recommending his bride to the care of her nurſe, he went back to town with a reſolution to declare his marriage to his father; his ſenti⯑ments being too delicate and his notions of honour too juſt to permit him on any conſi⯑deration of intereſt to conceal the engagements he had entered into, and ſuffer the woman whom he thought worthy to be his wife to live under a doubtful character.’

‘On his return home he found his letter had been delivered to the earl. His mother, be⯑ing informed of his arrival, ſent for him to her dreſſing-room, where he found her in tears. She told him that his father had been in the [68] moſt violent tranſports of anger, upon receiv⯑ing his letter; and ſhe conjured him, [...] he valued her peace, to proceed no farther in a deſign that muſt inevitably be his ruin.’

‘Mr. Courteney ſighed, and was preparing to anſwer her, when the earl himſelf entered the room: the impreſſion of his firſt [...] was ſtill viſible on his countenance. As ſoon [...] he ſaw his ſon, he poured a torrent of re⯑proaches on him, inveighing againſt his meanneſs and ingratitude; then ſuddenly, and with great vehemence, uttered the moſt dread⯑ful imprecations on him, if he followed the dictates of his deſpicably-placed paſſion, and married a beggar.’

‘Oh, hold my lord! cried Mr. Courteney, throwing himſelf at his feet; curſe [...]e not, for I am already married. The [...] [...]oſt mad with rage at this confeſſion, ſpurned him rudely with his foot, and flung out of the room, declaring that he renounced him for ever.’

‘Mr. Courteney, ſlung with indignation at this treatment, roſe up, and uttered ſome words of reſentment, when his attention was called off from the affront he had ſuffered, by the condition in which he obſerved his mother, who, from ſurpriſe and terror, had ſwooned, [69] and lay motionleſs on the couch, where ſhe had thrown herſelf. Mr. Courteney, exceſ⯑ſively ſhocked at this ſight, rung the bell for her woman, while he applied himſelf to give her all the aſſiſtance he was able. As ſoon as he ſaw her recovering, he ſtaid not to increaſe her diſorder by his preſence, but retired to his apartment; and after he had taken all the money he had in his cabinet, he left that houſe that was now become dreadful to him, and went to the lodgings of a young gentleman who had been his fellow-ſtudent at college, and whom he had reaſon to believe his friend, if friendſhip can be acquired by confering obligations.’

‘To this young gentleman he unloaded his heart, but found not the conſolation he ex⯑pected. He expreſſed the utmoſt aſtoniſhment and concern for his indiſcreet marriage; and, inſtead of offering him any advice in his per⯑plexed ſituation, or conſoling him, oppreſſed as he was by the diſpleaſure of his father, ma⯑nifeſted in ſo contemptuous a manner, he maintained that the earl's anger was juſt and reaſonable, and exclaimed at his imprudence in ruining himſelf for a woman.’

‘Before the miſchief was done, remonſtrances might have been ſeaſonable; but nothing [70] could be more unkind than to inſiſt upon an error which was already committed, and could not be repaired. Mr. Courteney was at firſt ſurpriſed at this behaviour in a man who had always ſhewn ſo deep a ſenſe of his kindneſs, and profeſſed the moſt tender friendſhip for him: but he had ſtill temper enough left to conſider, that moſt people follow their own intereſts, and are at one time grateful for their convenience, and at another ungrateful for the ſame reaſon.’

‘He left him without taking any notice of the diſguſt he had conceived; and after he had hired lodgings for the reception of his wife, he haſtened to Chelſea, where he ar⯑rived time enough to moderate the firſt agonies of her grief for the loſs of her mother, who had expired a few moments before.’

‘Having given directions concerning the fu⯑neral, he forced Mrs. Courteney out of that mournful houſe, and carried her to London, applying himſelf with the tendereſt aſſiduity to alleviate the ſenſe of her loſs, all his own juſt cauſes of uneaſineſs being forgot, and his anxiety for the melancholy future loſt in his contemplation of the happy preſent: ſo true it is that wedded-love ſupplies the want of every other bleſſing in life; and as no condi⯑tion [71] can be truly happy without it, ſo none can be abſolutely miſerable with it.’

CHAP. X.

‘IN the mean time Mr. Courteney correſ⯑ponded privately with his mother, whoſe gentle nature had, with little difficulty, been ſoftened into a forgiveneſs of her ſon's impru⯑dent marriage; but all her endeavours to re⯑concile the earl to it had proved ineffectual. He continued inexorable, and peremptorily commanded her never to mention that undu⯑tiful ſon to him more, whom he reprobated for ever.’

‘The counteſs durſt not hazard an interview with her ſon, while his father's reſentment continued unappeaſed; but ſhe allowed him two hundred a year out of her pin-money, and upon this moderate income they lived with more happineſs than is often to be found in the higheſt affluence.’ —

"And why not," interrupted miſs Woodby here, ‘a cottage, with the perſon we love, is [...] to be prefered to a palace with one to whom [72] intereſt and not affection has joined us. I know I could be contented to keep ſh [...] with the man I loved. Speak truth, my d [...] Clelia, would you not like to be a ſhop [...] ⯑eſs? O, what a delightful employ [...] watch a few harmleſs ſheep! to wa [...] groves and fields, or lie reclined upon the flowery margin of ſome murmuring [...] and liſten to the plaintive voice of the night⯑ingale, or the tender faithful vows of ſome lovely and beloved ſhepherd!’

"What a romantic picture," ſaid mi [...] Courteney laughing, ‘have you drawn! It is a mighty pretty one it muſt be confeſſed, but it is not at all like. I remember, when I was about fourteen, I had the ſame notions of ſhepherds and ſhepherdeſſes; but I was ſoon cured. I happened to be at the houſe of a country gentleman, who managed a large farm of his own; one of the ſervants ſay⯑ing ſomething about the ſhepherd, my heart danced at the ſound. My imagination re⯑preſented to me ſuch a pretty figure as we ſee on the ſtage in the dramatic paſtoral en⯑tertainment of Damon and Phillida, in a fine green habit, all bedizened with ribbons, a neat crook, and a garland of flowers. I begged to be permitted to go into the fields to [73] ſee the ſhepherd, and eagerly enquired if there were no ſhepherdeſſes likewiſe; but how was I diſappointed!—The ſhepherd was an old man in a ragged waiſtcoat, and ſo miſerably ſun⯑burnt, that he might have been taken for a mu⯑latto: the ſhepherdeſs looked like a witch; ſhe was ſitting under a hedge, mending old ſtock⯑ings, with a ſtraw hive on her head, and a tatter'd garment on, of as many colours as there were patches in it. How diverting it would have been to have heard this ena⯑mour'd ſwain ſigh out ſoft things to this lovely nymph!’

"Oh! ridiculous," cried miſs Woodby— ‘I am ſick at the very thought; but, my dear Clelia, go on, I beſeech you, with your ſtory.’

"I have not come to my own ſtory yet," ſaid miſs Courteney; ‘all that you have heard has been only an introduction to it; and I have given you the hiſtory of my parents in the words, as near as I can remember, of my mother; for ſhe loved ſcribbling, and com⯑mitted the principal incidents of her life to paper, which for my inſtruction ſhe per⯑mitted me to read: I ſay inſtruction, for ſhe was a woman of fine underſtanding and deep thinking, and ſhe had interſperſed through [74] her little narrative many beautiful and juſt re⯑flections, and many obſervations and uſeful maxims, which her reading, which was very comprehenſive, and her experience furniſhed her with.’

"Proceed, my dear Clelia," ſaid miſs Wood⯑by, obſerving Henrietta pauſed here, ‘I am impatient to hear more.’ "If you pleaſe," ſaid miſs Courteney, "we will drink tea firſt." ‘I have juſt two hours and a half to ſtay with you,’ replied miſs Woodby, looking at her "watch; ‘if I am at home by nine o'clock, which is my aunt's hour for ſupper, it will do.’ Henrietta then ordered tea, which was ſoon diſpatched, and ſhe reſumed her ſtory in this manner.

‘My father, who was very deſirous of con⯑ciliating at leaſt his elder brother's affections, wrote to him, he being now upon his travels, and gave him an account of his marriage; but his letter, though conceived in the moſt tender and reſpectful terms, produced a cruel and ſupercilious anſwer, which not only took away all hope of his proving a mediator be⯑tween him and his father, but convinced him that he had in him no longer a friend or bro⯑ther.’

[75] ‘His affairs were in this deſperate ſituation when my mother became pregnant; a diſtant relation of my father's now took an intereſt in this event, and being very rich and ambitious of making a family, he declared that if the child was a ſon, he would adopt him and make him his heir. You may imagine this deſign was received with great joy; the old gentle⯑man was very aſſiduous in his viſits to my mo⯑ther during her pregnancy, and ſeemed ex⯑tremely happy in the thoughts of perpetuating his name; an ambition very common to per⯑ſons of low extraction, who, by induſtry and thrift, have riſen to great riches: for he was only by marriage a relation to my father, and had been too much neglected on account of the meanneſs of his original. But all theſe flattering expectations were deſtroyed by my birth, which I had reaſon to ſay proved a miſ⯑fortune to my parents. The capricious old man was ſo greatly chagrined at his diſap⯑pointment, that he transferred all his favours to another couſin, who was ſo lucky as to preſent him with a ſon to ſucceed to his for⯑tune, and continue his obſcure name to poſ⯑terity.’

‘My brother's birth happened a year after⯑wards, and unfortunately for him a year too [76] late. My father ſtill continued to draw his whole income from the bounty of his mother, who was a conſtant but fruitleſs mediator in his behalf: her death, which happened about three years after his marriage, was an irrepa⯑rable loſs to him; for it was not improbable but the lenient hand of time, which weakens the force of every paſſion, joined to her tender ſolicitations, might have effected a reconcilia⯑tion between his father and him; but this hope was now no more: the counteſs be⯑queathed my father all the money ſhe had ſaved, which was but a very ſmall ſum; for ſhe had always given with a liberal hand to the poor, though with ſo little oſtentation, that it was ſuppoſed ſhe had ſaved ſome thouſands out of her pin-money, for ſhe was leſs expen⯑ſive than any other woman of her rank in Eng⯑land; but it was not till after my father's mar⯑riage, that ſhe began to ſave, and then only for him.’

‘Six hundred pounds was all that was found in her cabinet, which ſome months after her deceaſe was paid to my father with every cir⯑cumſtance of contempt.’

‘Theſe repeated calamities were ſo far from leſſening the love of my father and mother, that they ſeemed to redouble their tenderneſs; [77] ſeeking in each other that happineſs which for⯑tune denied them, and which they were always ſure to find in their own virtue and mutual af⯑fection.’

‘My father, who had had a very liberal edu⯑cation, employed the greateſt part of his time in the inſtruction of his children: under his tuition I acquired the French and Italian lan⯑guages; by my mother I was taught every uſeful accompliſhment for a young woman in my ſituation; nor did my father's narrow cir⯑cumſtances hinder him from procuring me thoſe which were ſuitable to my birth. My brother had no other tutor but this excellent father, who qualified him for a univerſity; and at fourteen years of age he was ſent to that of Leyden, and I have never ſeen him ſince.’

‘In the mean time the earl my grandfather, who ſtill continued inexorable, was taken off ſuddenly by an apoplectick fit; and having never altered his will, which he made imme⯑diately after the marriage of my father, he found he was cut off with a ſhilling. This ſtroke, as it was always expected, was leſs ſenſibly felt than another which immediately followed it. That relation, to whoſe eſtate my father was to ſucceed, having buried his wife, married a young woman, who, in a year [78] afterwards brought him a ſon to inherit his for⯑tune.’

‘My father, now ſeeing no proſpect of any proviſion for his children, fell into a deep me⯑lancholy: he had by the intereſt of ſome of his friends, obtained a place which brought him in between three and four hundred a year; but out of this it was impoſſible to ſave much. The uneaſineſs of mind which he laboured under, corrupted his blood; he was ſeized with a decay which carried him off in a few months, and deprived his wife of the beſt huſ⯑band, his children of the beſt father that ever was.’

‘In his laſt illneſs he had wrote to his bro⯑ther, and recommended his helpleſs family to his compaſſion; but that nobleman, whoſe avarice was his ſtrongeſt paſſion, and whoſe reſentment againſt his brother was kept up by the arts of his wife; her family, though noble, being very poor, and therefore depend⯑ent upon him, took no other notice of my father's laſt requeſt, than to ſend my mo⯑ther a bank bill for an hundred pounds; de⯑claring at the ſame time that it was all the aſſiſtance ſhe muſt ever expect from him; and with this heroick act of generoſity, he ſilenced [79] the ſoft pleadings of nature, and perſuaded him⯑ſelf that he had done his duty.’

‘My mother, being young with child when my father died, miſcarried; and by that acci⯑dent, together with her continual grief, ſhe fell into a languiſhing illneſs, which threatened a ſhort period to her days. Five hundred pounds was all that my father left: from this ſmall ſum a widow and two children were to draw their future ſubſiſtence. What a me⯑lancholy proſpect! However my brother, who was then about ſeventeen, had made ſuch great proficiency in learning, that, notwith⯑ſtanding his youth, he was recommended by the profeſſors of the univerſity to have the care of ſome Engliſh youths who ſtudied there, which afforded him a decent ſubſiſtence.’

‘My mother having placed four hundred and fifty pounds in the hands of a rich merchant, who had been a friend of my father's, and gave her very good intereſt for it, ſhe diſpoſed of all her furniture, and with the money ariſing from the ſale, ſet out with me for Bath, the waters being preſcribed to her by her phyſician.’

‘Not being able to ſupport the expence of living in the town, ſhe took lodgings in a plea⯑ſant village, about three miles diſtemper from it; and here, feeling her diſtemper daily gain⯑ing [80] ground, ſhe prepared for death, with a re⯑ſignation that was only interrupted by her anxiety for me.’

‘It was not indeed eaſy to form any plan for my future ſubſiſtence, which would not ſub⯑ject me to a ſituation very unfit for my birth. Had my brother been provided for, ſhe would have made no ſcruple of ſinking that ſmall ſum that was left, into an annuity for my life, which with economy might ſupport me above neceſſity and dependence. She wrote to my brother, and deſired his advice with regard to me. My brother, as if he had entered into her views, in his anſwer conjured her to have no ſolicitude about him, ſince, with the edu⯑cation he had received, he could not fail of ſupporting himſelf in the character of a gen⯑tleman, but to diſpoſe of that money in any manner which might be moſt for my advan⯑tage.’

‘My mother ſhed tears of tender ſatisfaction over this letter, ſo full of duty to her, and af⯑fection for me; but the more generous and diſintereſted her ſon ſhowed himſelf, the leſs was ſhe capable of taking a reſolution, which, if any diſappointment happened to him, muſt leave him without any reſource.’

[81] ‘You may be ſure, my dear miſs Woodby, I was not very forward to fix her purpoſe; for I could not bear the thought of being the only perſon, in our little diſtreſſed family, to whom a ſubſiſtence was ſecured. While my mother was thus fluctuating, ſhe was viſited in her re⯑tirement by lady Manning, a widow lady of a very plentiful fortune, with whom ſhe had been in ſome degree of intimacy during the life of my father.’

‘This lady ſhowed great fondneſs for me; and my mother imparting to her her difficul⯑ties with regard to ſettling me, lady Manning begged her to make herſelf quite eaſy, for that ſhe would take me under her own care.’

‘Miſs Courteney, ſaid ſhe, will do me ho⯑nour by accepting my houſe for an aſylum, and I and my daughter will think ourſelves happy in ſuch an agreeable companion. My mother was extremely pleaſed with this offer; and lady Manning preſſed me to go with her to London, for which place ſhe was to ſet out in a few days.’

‘I was ſo much ſhocked at the propoſal of leaving my mother in the dangerous condition ſhe was judged to be, that I did not receive lady Manning's offer with that ſenſe of her in⯑tended kindneſs which ſhe doubtleſs expected; [82] and when my mother, wholly governed by the conſideration of my intereſt, urged me to go with lady Manning, I burſt into a vio⯑lent paſſion of tears, vehemently proteſting that I would never leave her; and lamenting her cauſeleſs diſtruſt of my affection in ſup⯑poſing that I could be prevailed upon, by any proſpect of advantage to myſelf, to ſeparate from her.’

‘I obſerved lady Manning redened at theſe words, which ſhe underſtood as a reproach for her making ſo improper a propoſal, and which I really deſired ſhe ſhould: for I was highly diſguſted with her want of delicacy, in deſiring me to leave my mother, and her be⯑lieving it poſſible that I could conſent.’

‘I ſaw pleaſure in my mother's eyes at this artleſs expreſſion of my tenderneſs for her; but at the ſame time I thought I could per⯑ceive by the turn of her countenance that ſhe was apprehenſive I had diſobliged lady Man⯑ning: therefore I endeavoured to remove her fears by the ſtrongeſt aſſurances of gratitude to that lady. She received thoſe aſſurances with a little ſuperciliouſneſs at firſt, but that pre⯑ſently wore off; and at parting ſhe renewed her profeſſions of friendſhip to my mother, and promiſes of a parent's care of me.’

[83] ‘She left Bath three days afterwards, ſo that we did not ſee her again, which made my mo⯑ther a little uneaſy; but we had ſoon a very kind letter from her, in which ſhe repeated all her former offers, and expreſſed great tender⯑neſs for me.’

‘At her return from London, ſhe paſſed through Bath in her way to her country-ſeat; and, finding my mother much worſe, ſhe re⯑doubled her profeſſions of affection for me, and was ſo laviſh in her promiſes, that ſhe left her quite eaſy on my account. Indeed, notwith⯑ſtanding what I have ſuffered from lady Man⯑ning, I ſhall ever think myſelf obliged to her for contributing ſo greatly towards that compo⯑ſure of mind which my mother felt, from the time that ſhe thought me ſecure of an aſylum, till it would ſuit with my brother's circum⯑ſtances to take me under his own care.’

‘I will not, my dear miſs Woodby, enlarge upon the laſt three months of my mother's life, which was ſpent in a conſtant preparation for her end. Indeed the innocence of her manners, and the unfeigned piety that ſhone through her conduct, made her whole life one conti⯑nued preparation for that awful moment, ſo dreadful to the wicked; ſo full of peace, con⯑fidence, and holy joy to the good. In fine, I [84] loſt this excellent mother, and my bleeding heart ſtill feels her loſs.’

The tears, which at this tender remembrance ran from miſs Courteney's eyes, made a pathe⯑tick pauſe in her relation; but recovering her⯑ſelf, ſhe proceeded, as will be found in the fol⯑lowing Book.

CHAP. I.

"THE worthy merchant," reſumed miſs Courteney, ‘whom I mentioned to you, had the goodneſs to come to Bath, upon the news of my mother's extreme danger. He arrived time enough to receive her laſt intreaties, that he would continue his friendſhip to me. I was then entered into my twentieth year, and choſe him for my guar⯑dian; he would have taken me with him to his houſe, but my promiſe being engaged to lady Manning, I was obliged to decline his obliging offer.’

[86] ‘I wrote her an account of my mother's death; Mr. Bale, ſo was the merchant called, would not return to town till he ſaw me ſafely diſpoſed of.’

‘About three days after I had wrote to lady Manning, I received a letter from her, which was brought by one of her ſervants; in which, after the uſual compliments of condolance, ſhe deſired I would ſet out immediately with the perſon whom ſhe had ſent to attend me. My guardian, for ſo I uſed now to call Mr. Bale, coming in, I told him I muſt prepare to be gone immediately, and gave him lady Manning's letter to read.’

‘How are you to go, miſs? ſaid he, after he had looked over the letter. As I never doubted but lady Manning had ſent her poſt-chaiſe or chariot for me, I told him I ſuppoſed there was a carriage come with the meſſenger.’

‘O yes, replied Mr. Bale, there is a very good pillion, and you are to ride behind the footman, I took notice of the equipage as I came in, but I ſhall not permit you to per⯑form a journey of thirty miles in that manner: therefore, miſs, I would have you ſend a letter to the lady by her meſſenger, and inform her that your guardian will convey you ſafe to her ſeat.’

[87] ‘I was as much pleaſed with this kind atten⯑tion in Mr. Bale, as I was ſhocked and ſur⯑priſed at the ungenteel manner in which lady Manning had ſent for me: however I con⯑cealed my thoughts of it, and wrote ſuch a letter as my guardian deſired me. The next morning at eight o'clock, a poſt-chaiſe was ready at the door, and, Mr. Bale attending; all my cloaths had been packed up the night before, and we ſet out immediately.’

‘Lady Manning received us very politely, and detained Mr. Bale to dinner. I thought I could obſerve ſomething forced in the reſpect ſhe ſeemed to pay me; and I was particularly diſguſted with her uſing the words Your guar⯑dian every moment, as if in deriſion of the title I had to one.’

‘When Mr. Bale went away, he took an opportunity to ſpeak to me apart, and made me promiſe him, if I ſhould have any reaſon to be diſpleaſed with my ſituation, that I would write to him plainly, and he would come him⯑ſelf and fetch me away. This tender ſolici⯑tude in the good old man affected me very ſenſibly, and I could not help ſhedding tears when I ſaw him drive away.’

‘Lady Manning was extremely inquiſitive about his connexion with me, and aſked me a [88] great many queſtions. I am very glad, ſaid ſhe, your affairs are in the hands of ſo wiſe a man; for ſurely he who can raiſe a large eſtate out of nothing, as has been the caſe with Mr. Bale, muſt needs be a very wiſe man, and I don't doubt but he will manage your fortune to the beſt advantage.’

‘I was greatly diſpleaſed with the firſt part of this ſpeech, and particularly with the manner in which the word Fortune was drauled out.’

"The poor trifle I have, madam, replied I, "does not deſerve to be termed a fortune.

‘I aſſure you, ſaid ſhe, it was very kind in a man of Mr. Bale's ſubſtance to trouble himſelf with ſuch inconſiderable matters; and it is a great thing for you to be permitted to call ſuch a man guardian.’

‘Very true, madam, replied I, with ſome warmth; and I believe Mr. Bale thinks it no diſcredit to be called ſo by a child of Mr. Cour⯑teney's, whatever her fortune may be.’

‘I obſerved lady Manning to reden at this reply, which at that time ſurpriſed me, and I could not conceive the reaſon of it; but I ſoon found that it was a mortal crime in her eyes to pretend to derive any advantage from birth. There was nothing which ſhe ſeemed to hold in greater contempt than family-pride, [89] and indeed, when unſeaſonably exerted, it is contemptible; but it was plain that lady Man⯑ning did not think meanly of the fortuitous ad⯑vantage of being well-born, becauſe ſhe envied thoſe who poſſeſſed that advantage; and tho' the daughter of a ſoap-boiler herſelf, ſhe was extremely fond of being thought to have an⯑ceſtors; and it was to gratify her pride, that her huſband, who was a rich citizen, by trade a brewer, got himſelf knighted, that, toge⯑ther with a very large jointure, he might leave his wife the title of lady.’

"Surely," interrupted miſs Woodby, ‘this woman had no good intentions when ſhe in⯑vited you to her houſe; it is impoſſible that ſuch low creatures can have any notion of friendſhip or generoſity.’

"You have gueſſed truly," replied miſs Cour⯑teney; ‘it was to gratify her pride, to have the daughter of a gentleman ſubjected to her ca⯑price, and dependent on her bounty, that made her ſo ſolicitous of having me with her; but although I did not make theſe reflections im⯑mediately, yet I was ſo diſguſted by this firſt converſation, that I could not promiſe myſelf any great happineſs in ſuch ſociety.’

‘Her daughter was now introduced to me, a tall aukward thing about ſeventeen: ſhe was [90] an heireſs; and being taught to believe that riches give birth, beauty, wit, and every de⯑ſirable quality, ſhe held every one in contempt who was not poſſeſſed of this advantage, and becauſe ſhe had it herſelf, ſhe ſuppoſed ſhe had all the others.’

‘Whatever documents were given her, they were always introduced with—Conſider, miſs, what a fortune you are— a young lady of your fortune.— How was it poſſible for a girl thus tutored, not to derive inſolence from the con⯑ſideration of her fortune?’

‘The governeſs, who had the care of this young lady, was not very likely to enlarge her notions— Her only recommendation for ſuch a truſt was, that ſhe could jabber corrupted French without either ſenſe or grammar, and miſs was taught to parler françoiſe in a broad provincial dialect; for this governeſs had never ſeen Paris, and perhaps had never been out of the little village where ſhe was born and bred, and converſed only with peaſants, till ſhe came to England to teach language and fine breed⯑ing to a great heireſs. It was very natural for lady Manning to make ſuch a choice, who doubtleſs thought it a great diſtinction to have a foreigner for governeſs to her daughter.’

[91]"Nay, my dear," interrupted miſs Woodby, ‘lady Manning in this particular does not differ from many perſons of the firſt quality, who commit the education of their daughters to low vulgar creatures, merely becauſe they are French; creatures that in Paris, or in any of the chief cities in the provinces, would not be thought qualified for a chamber-maid to a woman of any faſhion, yet when driven into England on account of their religion, as they all pretend, though perhaps it is for want of bread in their own country, derive ſuch diſ⯑tinction from their flimſy ſacks, their pow⯑dered hair, and their ſpeaking French, that they are thought the fitteſt perſons in the world to form the manners of young girls of quality. How abſurd ſhould we think it in a French woman of quality to entertain an aukward Yorkſhire girl with a coarſe clowniſh accent, as Engliſh governeſs to her daughter, to teach her the language, and cor⯑rect her pronunciation? and yet not one in twenty of the Mademoiſelles in the houſes of our nobility and our French boarding-ſchools, are better qualified for ſuch an office.—But I beg pardon, my dear, for interrupting you ſo long: I long to hear what ſort of a life you lived in this rich deſpicable family.’

[92]"Truly," ſaid miſs Courteney, ‘it was not very agreeable, when lady Manning and I were alone, ſhe uſed to entertain me with an ac⯑count of her forefathers; ſhe reckoned up among them half a dozen ſheriffs, three lord-mayors, and a long train of aldermen. She lamented the death of her huſband moſt pathetically; for if he had lived two years longer, he would have been elected lord-mayor, and ſhe would have lived in the Man⯑ſion-houſe, and been queen of the city— Her own words.’

‘When we were at table and the ſervants attending, ſhe uſed to turn the diſcourſe upon the misfortunes of my father, lament the ſad condition to which my mother and I were re⯑duced by his death, expreſs great anxiety about my brother, and enter into a minute diſcuſſion of our affairs.’

‘When there was company preſent, ſhe would take notice that I was melancholy, and tell me that I muſt not take misfortunes to heart, and then ſigh as if ſhe was extremely affected with them herſelf; by which ſhe recommended me to her viſiters as an object of compaſſion, and never failed by that means to produce ſome inſtance of neglect towards [93] me; ſo powerfully did that conſideration ope⯑rate upon moſt minds.’

‘She would ſharply reprehend her daughter for any ſuppoſed want of civility to me, and paſs over in ſilence any real one; telling her that if miſs Courteney had not a fortune, yet ſhe was a gentlewoman as well as herſelf, and that no body ſhould be deſpiſed for being poor.’

‘Such were the continued mortifications that I was obliged to endure from this generous benefactreſs: yet I ought not to call them mortifications, becauſe they only excited my contempt; about that time I received a letter from my brother, in which he informed me that he was going to travel with a young Engliſh nobleman, whoſe governor had died ſuddenly at Leyden, and whom he was appointed to ſuc⯑ceed upon a very advantageous footing, on account of his birth, he deſired me to draw upon him for what money I had occaſion for.’

‘I received theſe inſults with the more in⯑difference, as I knew I could put an end to them when I pleaſed, by quitting lady Man⯑ning's houſe, which I could now do without any inconvenience to myſelf; and foreſeeing that this indelicacy in her treatment of me, muſt neceſſarily end in ſomething too coarſe [94] for me to diſſemble my reſentment, I was willing to ſtay till ſhe ſhewed herſelf in her true colours, which would be my juſtification whenever I quitted her.’

CHAP. II.

‘IT was not long before I had this opportu⯑nity. She deſired me one day to walk with her in the garden, having ſomething to com⯑municate to me greatly to my advantage; and, after a profound ſilence of about ten minutes, ſhe looked archly at me, and aſked me if I could gueſs what ſhe had been doing for me? Indeed I cannot. Madam, replied I. Well then I will tell you, ſaid ſhe, nothing leſs, I aſſure you, than providing you a husband. Indeed! ſaid I, laughing, and pray, madam, who is this intended husband? Come, come, ſaid ſhe gravely, before I tell you who he is, you muſt promiſe me to make no ſilly objec⯑tions; ſuch as age, not being a fine gentleman, and the like. The perſon I have in my eye for you is a ſober ſtaid man, and bleſſed with means to ſupport you handſomely, without [95] depending upon any body. That indeed is ſomething, replied I; but who is this perſon, Madam? I have a good mind, ſaid ſhe, to tantalize you a little, by keeping you in ſuſ⯑pence;—but in ſhort the perſon I mean is honeſt Mr. Vellum.’

‘Although I expected ſome very abſurd and impertinent propoſal, yet my imagination had never reached any thing ſo riciculous as this Mr. Vellum; for I had had his hiſtory from himſelf ſome time before. He had been taken by her father out of a pariſh-ſchool, becauſe he underſtood writing and accounts, to keep his books for him. Upon his young miſtreſs's marriage, he was advanced to be a clerk in her husband's office; and here, having ſcraped up a little money, he made ſome ſucceſsful ventures in trade, and had acquired about two thouſand pounds. After Sir John's death, my lady made him her ſteward, with a ſallary of fifty pounds a-year; and he was in this ho⯑nourable and lucrative poſt, when ſhe propoſed him as a husband for me.’

‘My ſurpriſe was ſucceeded by a ſtrong in⯑clination to laugh, which, indeed, I took no pains to ſuppreſs; and pray madam, ſaid I, has this grave perſonage expreſſed any good liking to me?’

[96] ‘I hope you are not jeſting, ſaid ſhe.—Why, did you expect me to be ſerious, replied I, upon ſuch a propoſal?’

‘Such a propoſal miſs! repeated lady Man⯑ning colouring: if my daughter was in your circumſtances, I ſhould not be ſorry ſuch a propoſal was made to her. Very likely madam, returned I, and it might be more proper than to Mr. Courteney's daughter, and the niece of the earl of —’

‘This may look like vanity, my dear miſs Woodby; but I confeſs I was exceſſively ſhocked at her levelling me with her daugh⯑ter, when riches were out of the queſtion; for I was contented to allow her all the ſupe⯑riority ſhe could derive from them. Lady Manning made me a ſmarter anſwer, and de⯑livered with more calmneſs than I expected from her.’

‘If the earl of—, ſaid ſhe, behaved more like an uncle to you, miſs, it would be oftener remembered that you are his niece; but, as it is, I do not know whether it may not be an advantage to you, to have it forgot; for there are very few gentlemen of ſmall fortunes who would chooſe an indigent woman of quality for a wife.’

[97] ‘I hope however, madam, ſaid I, that none but a gentleman will preſume to offer himſelf to me; and I ſhall take care not to juſtify my uncle's neglect, by encouraging any improper addreſs.—You are very much in the right, miſs, ſaid lady Manning, one unfortunate marriage in a family is enough.’

‘'Tis well, madam, replied I, burſting into tears, you mean my father's, no doubt; but it was no otherwiſe unfortunate than that it had not the ſanction of my grand-father's conſent; my mother's excellencies juſtified his choice; and ſhe might have had a fortune too, though not equal to what he might have expected, if it had not been truſted in the hands of a vil⯑lain, who broke to leave his own children fortunes, as many other villains have done.’

‘This laſt hint threw lady Manning into ſome confuſion; for it was ſuſpected that her grand-father, who was a corn-factor, had done the like: and, whether it was that ſhe was afraid of my ſpeaking ſtill plainer, or that ſhe was really concerned for having given me ſuch juſt reaſon to complain of her, ſhe thought fit to beg my pardon for what was paſt, and aſſured me, that whatever I might think of her, ſhe was unalterably my friend.’

[98] ‘In my firſt emotions of reſentment, I had reſolved to write to Mr. Bale, and acquaint him with the treatment I had met with, which I knew would bring him immediately to my relief: but I conſidered that my leaving lady Manning in diſguſt might have diſagreeable conſequences; for ſhe would not fail to repre⯑ſent every thing in ſuch a manner as to make me appear in the wrong, and the world ſeldom eſpouſes the part of the oppreſſed, becauſe they who oppreſs have that on their ſide which is ſure to exculpate them, and that is riches: beſides, the ſummer was now almoſt paſt, and ſhe talked of going ſoon to London, where I could take an opportunity of leaving her without any noiſe, and of putting myſelf immediately under my guardian's protection; but I was delivered from this diſagreeable ſi⯑tuation ſooner than I expected, and by means which I had then no reaſon to hope for.’

‘Lady Manning was deſirous of ſpending a few weeks at Bath before ſhe returned to London. A lady happened to be there a that time, who, I afterwards learned, was my great aunt by my father's ſide, and had fol⯑lowed the example of every branch of his fa⯑mily, in taking no notice of him after his mar⯑riage.’

[99] ‘This lady, lady Manning became ac⯑quainted with; and not knowing the relation in which ſhe ſtood to me, ſhe began one day to exclaim againſt the pride and folly of people in low circumſtances, who expect to be con⯑ſidered on account of their birth, producing me as an inſtance, and relating how I had re⯑fuſed an honeſt man whom ſhe had propoſed to me for a huſband, becauſe he was not a gentleman, repeating my own words with a ſneer; and therefore—Not a proper match for Mr. Courteney's daughter.’

‘This being the firſt time ſhe had named me, lady Meadows (for it was her) cried out in ſome aſtoniſhment, what, madam, is that pretty young lady (ſo ſhe was pleaſed to ſay) that I ſaw with you once in the rooms, Mr. Courteney's daughter?’

‘Lady Manning anſwering in the affirmative —good heaven! ſaid lady Meadows, and have I lived to hear one of my family ſpoken of with ſuch contempt?’

"One of your family, madam! interrupted "lady Manning, ſurpriſed.

‘Yes, ſaid lady Meadows, one of my family, who has done you too much honour to accept of an obligation from you; how could you preſume to propoſe your ſcound [...]el ſteward for [100] husband to my couſin? but I will take her out of your hands immediately; you ſhall be paid for her board; my nephew's daughter ſhall not lie under an obligation to any upſtart [...]it.’

‘It is not to be doubted that lady Manning replied with great bittterneſs; but lady Mea⯑dows, from whom I afterwards had theſe par⯑ticulars, was in too much emotion to liſten to her. She immediately quittted the wa [...], for they were on the Parade; and getting [...] her chariot, told lady Manning, that ſhe was going to her lodgings to fetch me away.’

‘Thus, my dear miſs Woodby, did I recover a relation, a friend, a benefactreſs, in a wo⯑man, who for many years, had had no inter⯑courſe with my father, and diſclaimed him, as the reſt of his relations had done, on account of his marriage: ſhe whoſe reſentment could not be ſoftened by time; whoſe compaſſion could not be awakened by diſtreſs; ſhe who had ſilenced the pleadings of nature, yet liſ⯑tened to the voice of pride; and from a ſenſe of the affront that had been offered her family, in the husband propoſed to me, ſhe did all that a better motive could have ſuggeſted her to do.’

‘You may imagine I was greatly ſurpriſed, when a ſervant informed me, that lady Mea⯑dows [101] was at the door in her chariot, and de⯑ſired I would come to her. I had often heard my father mention this aunt of his, from whom, before his marriage, he had great ex⯑pectations. I went down ſtairs in much con⯑fuſion of mind, not knowing what this ſum⯑mons could mean, yet preſaging ſome good; and as ſoon as I appeared, lady Meadows let down the glaſs, and deſired me to come into the chariot. Her footman inſtantly opening the door, I got in, and placed myſelf by her, expecting when ſhe would ſpeak, and anx⯑iouſly longing for an explanation.’

‘Lady Meadows gazed at me in ſilence, du⯑ring ſome moments; then taking my hand, My dear, ſaid ſhe in a tender accent, you are very like your father. Poor Ned! added ſhe with ſome emotion, he was not kindly uſed. —The tears ſtreamed from my eyes at this mention of my father. I obſerved lady Mea⯑dows was greatly affected. Oh nature! thought I, why were thy tender feelings ſuppreſſed ſo long? Don't weep my dear, ſaid ſhe, I will be both father and mother to you.’

‘Had I been in another place, I ſhould have thrown myſelf at her feet, to expreſs my grati⯑tude for this affectionate promiſe. I could not ſpeak at that moment; I took her hand, [102] kiſſed it, and wet it with my tears. She kindly wiped my eyes with her own handkerchief; then looking again in my face, as if with plea⯑ſure, you are like your mother too, I ſuppoſe, ſaid ſhe: I never ſaw her, but I have heard that ſhe was very handſome.’

‘This obliging manner of mentioning my mother, which I ſo little expected from her, quite ſubdued me. My dear, ſaid ſhe what is paſt cannot be helped; you are my daughter now; you ſhall be no longer obliged to lady Manning. — That wom [...]n, purſued ſhe, riſing in her temper as ſhe ſpoke, has herſelf told me the inſolence of her treat⯑ment of you; ſhe then gave me an account of what had paſſed upon the Parade, as I have already related to you.’

‘Lady Manning thought to have injured me in your opinion, ſaid I, and ſhe has made me happy, by awakening your tenderneſs for me: I now forgive her for all her inſults.’

‘But I never will forgive her, interrupted lady Meadows.—As ſoon as we come to my lodgings, you ſhall ſend for your cloaths, and never more enter her doors.’

‘I was very unwilling to part with lady Man⯑ning in this manner, and preſſed my aunt to allow me to go and take leave of her civilly; [103] but ſhe poſitively refuſed, and I found ſhe could not endure the leaſt contradiction, which is indeed one of her foibles. I therefore contented myſelf with writing to her, and ac⯑quainted her with lady Meadows's reſolution in my favour; I made the beſt apology I could for leaving her ſo ſuddenly, and ex⯑preſſed ſome concern at the miſunderſtand⯑ing there was between lady Meadows and her, which made it impoſſible for me to wait on her.’

‘Politeneſs, my dear, is ſometimes a great tax upon ſincerity. Lady Manning had cer⯑tainly treated me very ill, and in ſtrict juſtice I was not obliged to ſhew any reſpect to a woman who had violated all the laws of hoſ⯑pitality with regard to me; but cuſtom de⯑cides arbitrarily in theſe caſes; and perſons in a certain condition of life, make a ſcience of hating one another with all the good breeding and complaiſance imaginable.’

‘Lady Manning, according to this rule, re⯑turned a civil anſwer to my letter, wiſhed me all happineſs, and wherever ſhe went, let looſe all the aſperity of her tongue againſt me. One calumny propagated by her hurt me more than all the reſt: ſhe confidently reported that I had ſacrificed my conſcience to my intereſt; [104] and that upon my aunt's promiſing to ſettle her whole fortune upon me at her death, I had turned Roman catholick: for lady Mea⯑dows had been perverted to that religion by her huſband, and, like all proſelytes, was ex⯑tremely bigotted to her new principles.’

‘I thought it became me to diſcountenance this report as much as poſſible; therefore I was more regular than ever in my attendance at church: and although my aunt, after we came to London, would often have engaged me to go to maſs with her, intending no doubt to work me to her purpoſe by degrees; yet I conſtantly and ſteddily refuſed to gratify her in this particular, though in every other I ſtudied to oblige her as much as poſſible. She would often engage me in argument upon the ſubject of religion, which I gene⯑rally ſtrove to evade; and when I found that would not do, I defended myſelf with great courage, and with ſo much ſucceſs, that ſhe would tell me with an air, half ſmiling, ha [...] angry, that I was too hard for her, and that ſhe would conſign me over to her chap⯑lain.’

‘This chaplain, whoſe name is Danvers, is a prieſt of the order of the Jeſuits: he had been recommended to lady Meadows by her [105] late huſband, whoſe memory ſhe adored; and this powerful intereſt, joined to the jeſuit's in⯑ſinuating manners, acquired him ſo great credit with lady Meadows, that ſhe governed herſelf wholly by his advice; and that the great work of her ſalvation might be per⯑fected, and her every word and action be under his direction, he lived in the houſe with her, where he ruled in a moſt arbitrary manner; his abſolute empire over the con⯑ſcience of my lady, rendering his dominion over all that had any dependence on her as uncontroled as he could deſire.’

Here Henrietta ſtopped, obſerving her friend to look at her watch, which produced an ex⯑clamation that the reader will find in the fol⯑lowing chapter.

CHAP. III.

"OH! my dear," cried miſs Woodby, ‘I am in deſpair to find it is ſo late, I muſt leave you now; but I am ſo impatient to hear the reſt of your ſtory, that if you will give me leave, I will breakfaſt with you to-morrow, and as ſoon as my eager curioſity is ſatisfied, we will go together to Mrs. Egret's.’

She then deſired a chair might be ſent for; ‘and in the mean time, ſaid ſhe, we will ſtep into the ſhop, I will make a little purchaſe on purpoſe to ſee your landlady, whom you ſeem to diſlike ſo much.’

"Indeed I do not like her," replied Hen⯑rietta, "and yet ſhe is mighty civil." "Well," ſaid miſs Woodby, tripping down ſtairs, ‘I'll give you my opinion of her when I have ſtudied her a little.’

Miſs Courtency was following her into the ſhop, when perceiving the young gentleman, who was there the day before, in diſcourſe with Mrs. Eccles, ſhe pulled miſs Woodby by the [107] ſleeve, whiſpering, ‘Don't go in now, there is ſomebody with her.’ "Indeed, but I will," replied miſs Woodby, who ſaw the glimpſe of a laced coat, for which ſhe had always a violent paſſion, "and ſo ſhall you likewiſe."

Saying this, ſhe pulled miſs Courteney in, and, ſwimming up to Mrs. Eccles, bid her with a lively air ſhow her ſome ribbons and blond [...]laces.

The young gentleman, as ſoon as the ladies appeared, made them a profound bow; and, fixing his eyes on Henrietta's face, ſeemed to contemplate it with aſtoniſhment and delight.

Mean time miſs Woodby was playing over a thouſand fantaſtick airs, and uttering as many pretty abſurdities, which ſhe had heard admired coming from the mouths of beauties, without reflecting that ſhe herſelf was no beauty—Mrs. Eccles perceived her foible immediately, and took occaſion, when ſhe was ſhowing her ſome new-faſhioned caps, to tell her, that ſuch a one would ſuit the air of her face; that this coloured ribbon was moſt proper to ſhew the luſtre of her eyes; obſerved that ſhe had wonderful fine hair, and begged to know who cut it.

Henrietta, a little in pain for her friend, to whom perſonal compliments were by no means proper, endeavoured to relieve the confuſion [108] ſhe ſuppoſed ſhe was under, by diverting her at⯑tention to ſomething elſe, and aſked her opinion of ſome Dreſden work that was lying before them. But miſs Woodby had no leiſure to an⯑ſwer her; for the gentleman, conceiving that it was eaſier to introduce ſome converſation to her than to miſs Courteney, whoſe mingled mo⯑deſty and dignity ſtruck him with awe, addreſſed a trifling queſtion to miſs Woodby, which ſhe anſwered with ſuch an affected ſprightlineſs, as encouraged him to talk to her with the famili⯑arity of an old acquaintance.

Miſs Woodby was exceſſively delighted with his addreſs to her, and played off all the [...]l⯑lery of eyes, air, and wit upon him,— [...]opy was it for the young gentleman, who courage⯑ouſly bore all her attacks, that this ſhe was given from two little grey eyes, over which her forehead hung like a precipice; and that this form, which was thrown into a thouſand dif⯑ferent attitudes to ſtrike him, was ſo diſt [...]ted by nature as to leave little more for affectation to do.

The chair had been waiting half an hour without miſs Woodby's perceiving it, when Henrietta, who was not at all pleaſed with the figure her friend made, told her, ſmiling, ‘that ſhe would not let her ſtay any longer, [109] for fear ſhe ſhould by that means be diſap⯑pointed of her company at breakfaſt the next day.’

"I vow, my dear, you are in the right," cried miſs Woodby, ‘to ſend me away; for my aunt is waiting ſupper for me— I am a giddy creature.’ — She then deſired Mrs. Ec⯑cles to put up the things ſhe had bought; for, in the gaiety of her heart, ſhe had bought a great many. Mrs. Eccles obeyed, telling her ſhe hoped ſhe ſhould have the pleaſure of ſerving ſo agreeable a lady again.

The gentleman would hand her into her chair, which miſs Woodby accepted with a very gal⯑lant air, after ſhe had aſſured miſs Courteney aloud, that ſhe would be with her in the morn⯑ing, and told her in a whiſper that her landlady was a very pretty behaved woman.

Henrietta went up to her chamber directly, to the great diſappointment of the young gen⯑tleman, who, finding there was no probability of ſeeing her again that night, went away diſ⯑burthened of a heart which he had left with the charming ſtranger.

She was now ſummoned to ſupper by Mrs. Eccles, who was full of praiſes of the young lady her viſiter. ‘This has been a lucky day, to me, ſaid ſhe, for I have let my firſt floor, [110] at a very good price, conſidering the ſeaſon of the year.’ I am glad of it," ſaid the young lady. ‘That is very obliging of you, my dear miſs,’ ſaid Mrs. Eccles, ‘and you may ſtill have the uſe of the dining-room when you have company; for my lord wil be ſeldom at home in the day, theſe lodgings are only to ſleep in. But how do you like him? Is he not a mighty agreeable man? Dear ſoul! not a bit of pride in him—’

‘Do you mean the gentleman I ſaw in the ſhop?’ ſaid miſs Courteney. "Yes," re⯑turned Mrs. Eccles, ‘he is a lord, I aſſure you.’ "Well," ſaid miſs Courteney, ‘I am glad you are not to loſe one lodger with⯑out getting another, for I muſt leave you to⯑morrow.’ "How!" replied Mrs. Eccles, with an altered countenance, ‘I hope you are only in jeſt.’ ‘Upon my word I am in earneſt,’ ſaid miſs Courteney. ‘I am ſorry for it, madam,’ reſumed ſhe, ‘but this is very ſhort notice.’

Henrietta was a little ſurpriſed at the peeviſh⯑neſs with which ſhe ſpoke theſe laſt words, ſo dif⯑ferent from her uſual complaiſance: but ſhe would not ſeem to take notice of it, and only told her, that it was not her deſign to ſtay more than a few days at this end of the town, having [111] affairs to tranſact in the city, which would oblige her for her own convenience to take lodgings there.

Mrs. Eccles appeared ſatisfied with this an⯑ſwer, though a cloud hung upon her brow during the whole time they were at ſupper, which miſs Courteney ſhortened as much as poſſible, and retired to her chamber, with new prejudices againſt her landlady, that made her rejoice in the proſpect of getting away the next day.

Miſs Woodby came according to her promiſe to breakfaſt, in a world of ſpirits, and had ſcarce taken a ſeat, when ſhe aſked after the charming fellow who entertained her ſo agreeably in the ſhop.

Henrietta told her, ſhe ſaw no more of him; ‘for the moment you was gone, ſaid ſhe, I went up ſtairs; but really, my dear, I won⯑der you ſeemed ſo pleaſed with his converſa⯑tion, methought it was very ſilly and trifling.’

"Oh!" exclaimed miſs Woodby, ‘there is an inexpreſſible charm in the trifling chat of a pretty ſenſible fellow, when we know he ſubmits to it only to pleaſe us women.’

"Truly," ſaid miſs Courteney, ‘your ſex is not obliged to you for that compliment. Muſt a man then talk nonſenſe to be acceptable to [112] us.’ "Lord, how grave you are! my dear," ſaid miſs Woodby— ‘why don't you know that I am the verieſt coquet in nature, and take an infinite pleaſure in making a wiſe man look and talk like a fool.’

"A coquet, my dear!" interrupted Henrietta, ſurpriſed, "no, ſurely." "Indeed but I am," replied miſs Woodby; ‘and I verily think! ſhould not be in the leaſt concerned to ſee a hundred men dying of love for me.’ ‘In⯑deed!’ ſaid miſs Courteney. ‘Yes, in⯑deed,’ repeated the other; ‘but why that ſtare of aſtoniſhment? are theſe notions [...]o new to you?’ "Why, no—" heſitated miſs Courteney (whoſe aſtoniſhment aroſe from the contemplation of the figure which uttered all this extravagance) ‘I have ſomewhere met in my courſe of reading with ſuch fantaſtical notions, but I cannot ſay that I ever thought I ſhould hear them avowed by a young lady of your good ſenſe.’ ‘Oh! your ſervant for that compliment,’ returned miſs Woodby, bow⯑ing; ‘but on the article of vanity we are all fools.—But come, my dear, make your tea, and then reſume your ſtory; for I die with impatience to hear it.’

"I wiſh you would excuſe me," ſaid Hen⯑rietta, ‘till I am got to Mrs. Egret's, for I ſhall [113] not be eaſy till I am out of this houſe.’ "Why have you ſuch a diſlike to this houſe?" ſaid miſs Woodby, ‘I proteſt I think your landlady a mighty civil, obliging woman.’ "Well, I don't like her," replied Henrietta, ‘ſhe has let her firſt floor all on a ſudden to the gentleman we ſaw in the ſhop.’ ‘And how does that affect you?’ interrupted miſs Woodby.

Henrietta bluſhed at this queſtion; ſhe was not willing to own that ſhe thought there was ſome deſign in his coming, and expected her friend would have made that inference herſelf; but finding ſhe did not, ſhe endeavoured to di⯑vert her attention from the hint ſhe had dropped, by ſaying ſhe had ſet her heart upon going to Mrs. Egret's, and had told Mrs. Eccles that ſhe was to leave her to-day.

"That was very imprudently done of you," ſaid miſs Woodby, ‘before you knew whether Mrs. Egret could accommodate you with lodgings; but own the truth now,’ purſued [...]e, ‘did you not put yourſelf into a flutter upon hearing the gentleman had taken lodg⯑ings here?’

‘Why, I cannot help ſaying I was ſtartled at it,’ replied Henrietta, ‘and the more when I heard he was a man of quality; for [114] ſurely theſe lodgings are much too mean for a perſon of that rank.’

"Is he a man of quality?" exclaimed miſs Woodby— ‘Oh! the dear creature—I pro⯑teſt I am quite in love with him now; I do at on a man of quality— And pray why ſhould his coming fright you away.—Ah! my dear,’ ſaid ſhe, ſmiling archly, ‘had I not reaſon for ſaying a moment ago, that on the article of vanity we are all fools? Now are you ready to imagine here is a plot between this young nobleman and Mrs. Eccles againſt your fair ſelf. Poor lady,’ purſued ſhe, laughing, ‘this preſumptuous knight will certainly carry you away.’

"You are in a gay humour to-day," ſaid miſs Courteney, bluſhing, ‘but raillery a-part, it imports me greatly not to be known: this lord, as Mrs. Eccles ſays he is, will no doubt have a great many perſons coming after him; I may be ſeen and diſcovered, and, if you knew what I have to dread in that caſe, I am ſure you would think it reaſonable for me to be anxious to get out of this houſe.’

‘You will be in more danger of a diſcovery at Mrs. Egret's,’ ſaid miſs Woodby; ‘he [...] houſe is much larger than this, and ſhe very ſeldom without people of faſhion in it. [115] But I can keep in my chamber,’ ſaid Hen⯑rietta. ‘And what hinders you from doing ſo here,’ ſaid miſs Woodby— ‘Ah! it is as I ſuſpected; you are certainly apprehenſive of being conveyed to ſome iſland in an immenſe lake.’

"But my dear miſs Woodby," ſaid Hen⯑rietta, laughing, ‘why, have you changed your mind about my going to Mrs. Egret's?’ "I have not changed my mind," replied miſs Woodby; ‘I am ready to do what I pro⯑miſed, but it is my opinion that if Mrs. Egret cannot furniſh you with a lodging, you will be very ſafe here, and I will be with you as [...] often as I can.’ "Ah, my dear," ſaid miſs Courteney, mimicking the tone ſhe had uſed to [...]er; ‘but come write a line to Mrs. Egret to know if ſhe has a ſingle room to ſpare, and I ſhall be ſatisfied.’

Miſs Woodby immediately complied with [...]r requeſt, and a porter was diſpatched to St. [...]mes's-ſtreet, who ſoon returned with a billet [...]om Mrs. Egret to miſs Woodby, expreſſing [...]r concern that ſhe could not accommodate her [...]end.

Well," ſaid Henrietta, when ſhe heard this, I find I muſt be contented to ſtay here a few days longer; but remember I claim your pro⯑miſe [116] to be with me as often as you can." "That you may depend upon," ſaid miſs Woodby; ‘and now I claim your's to finiſh your hiſtory, I am impatient to hear how you came off with this doughty chaplain.’

CHAP. IV.

"I Muſt confeſs," ſaid miſs Cour [...]ency, re⯑ſuming her narrative, ‘that I had no in⯑clination to engage in a religious diſpute with a man whoſe learning and abilities gave him ſo many advantages over me; therefore when⯑ever he gave the converſation that [...]n. I ge⯑nerally took refuge in ſilence, not being will⯑ing to hurt a cauſe I had ſo much at heart, by defending it weakly.’

‘However I was often drawn in to anſwer by ſome apparent abſurdity advanced by him, which it ſeemed mighty eaſy to refute. On theſe occaſions Mr. Danvers would liſten to me with wonderful attention, obſerve the moſt minute exactneſs in his reply, as if what I had urged had indeed great force: nay, [117] he would ſometimes ſeem a little preſt by my arguments; pauſe for a few moments, as if he found it neceſſary to collect all his ſtrength againſt ſo potent an adverſary; and after a well-turned compliment on my underſtand⯑ing, he would reſume the argument, in which he never failed to puzzle, though he could not convince me; but always concluded with a declaration that I was too hard for him, and it was well he had the beſt ſide of the argu⯑ment, for nothing but truth could ſtand a⯑gainſt ſuch ſubtilty of reaſoning.’

‘Theſe praiſes always left me in a very good diſpoſition to renew the ſubject whenever an opportunity offered. I began to be extremely fond of diſputing with the chaplain; and, in⯑ſtead of ſhunning it, as I uſed to do, I even invited his oppoſition.’

‘I have heard it obſerved that vanity cheats many a woman out of her honour, I am ſure it was well nigh cheating me out of my reli⯑gion; for this jeſuit by his inſidious praiſes had given me ſuch a confidence in my talent of reaſoning, that I began to believe if he did not make a proſelyte of me, I ſhould cer⯑tainly make one of him; and, in my eager purſuit of victory, I ſometimes engaged my⯑ſelf [118] beyond my ſtrength, and received ſuch checks, that if my faith was not overthrown, yet it was ſtrangely ſtaggered: but ſome diſ⯑guſt which I took to the manners of the chap⯑lain preſerved me from the poiſon of his doc⯑trine, and made me loſe all my reliſh for arguing with him.’

‘My aunt, who was certainly very deſirous of my converſion, was much pleaſed with her chaplain's zeal to forward ſo great a work; and that ſhe might give no inter⯑ruption to our diſcourſe, ſhe would often leave us alone for ſeveral hours together.’

‘At ſuch times, the jeſuit would be very laviſh of his compliments and praiſes; of which my perſon would even come in for a ſhare— He would gaze on my face till he loſt the chain of his diſcourſe, and, by his inattention to what he was ſaying, gave me many advantages over him; and often, while he was purſuing his argument with great warmth, he would lay his hand on mine, hold it for ſeveral minutes together, and preſs it ſo violently, that I could hardly help cry⯑ing out.’

‘All this, however, would not have ſtartled me; but one day, taking occaſion upon ſome⯑thing I had ſaid to break into an exclamation [119] of ſurpriſe, at my prodigious underſtanding, he kiſſed my hand in a kind of rapture; and having once taken this liberty, he repeated it ſeveral times, to my great confuſion and ſur⯑priſe.’

‘Theſe are ſuſpicions, my dear, which, againſt perſons of a certain character, one dare not even avow to one's ſelf. I was ſhocked, yet would not venture to examine why; I could never endure to be alone with him, yet never aſked myſelf the reaſon; my eyes, as it were, mechanically avoided his; his civilities were odious to me. If he enquired after my health, I anſwered him coldly, without know⯑ing I did ſo; and when he launched into any of his uſual praiſes, I was downright rude to him, yet ſcarce perceived it myſelf.’

‘I now ſo carefully ſhunned being alone with him, that notwithſtanding he ſought op⯑portunities of engaging me in private, which heightened my diſguſt, yet he never could find any. This conduct, if he had any guilt in his heart, muſt certainly give him cauſe to think I had detected it; and indeed I ſoon found, by my aunt's altered behaviour, that he was endeavouring to undermine me in her affection.’

[120] ‘The little peeviſhneſs I obſerved in her to⯑wards me, I imputed at firſt to her chagrin, at my having diſappointed her wiſhes in not becoming a convert to that religion ſhe pro⯑feſſed; but I ſoon found that ſhe had been made to conceive ſtrange notions of me. She objected to the gaiety of my diſpoſition; ſhe did not like that crowd of lovers, as ſhe phraſed it, that followed me, and were en⯑couraged by my coquet airs, and the pleaſure I ſhewed in being admired.’

‘It is certain, that the report of the fortune my aunt deſigned for me, procured me ad⯑dreſſes from ſeveral men, whom as ſhe did not approve, ſo neither did I encourage; having, in reality, none of that ſort of vanity which is gratified by a great many pretenders of this kind, nor did I feel the leaſt partiality to any one of them; ſo that I told her it would give me no uneaſineſs if ſhe forbid their viſits for the future, which, ſince I found they were diſagreeable to her, I would have done myſelf, if I had thought it became me to take that li⯑berty in her houſe. This declaration would not ſatisfy my aunt: ſhe had further views; I muſt marry, and ſhe muſt chooſe a huſband for me, without leaving me in an affair that ſo [121] nearly concerned my happineſs, even a nega⯑tive voice.’

‘I have no doubt but that the perſon ſhe pitched upon was recommended to her by the chaplain; he was a Roman catholic baronet, had a good eſtate, was not much above ſixty years of age, his perſon juſt not horrible, and he was not quite a fool. This was the man whom my aunt propoſed to me, or rather commanded me to accept; for he had mo⯑deſty enough not to try to engage my affec⯑tions, till he had ſecured her conſent, and was admitted in form to make his addreſſes to me.’

‘My aunt indeed allowed that there was ſome diſproportion in our years; but then he had a good eſtate, and I was wholly dependent upon her; his perſon, ſhe acknowledged, was not very amiable, but he was a baronet, and could give me a title; to be ſure, ſhe ſaid, he was not a man of bright parts, but he would make a good ſettlement on me; and concluded with aſſuring me, that my chearful conſent would greatly endear me to her, which I ſhould find by the diſpoſition ſhe would make in her will.’

‘My aunt, having thus anticipated every objection I could make, and, in her opinion, [122] fully anſwered them all, I thought it would be to no purpoſe to diſpute with her on points already decided; I therefore contented my⯑ſelf with declaring, that I could not like Sir Iſaac Darby (for that was his name); that I ſhould be miſerable, if I married him; that I was extremely happy in my preſent ſituation, and had no wiſh to change it.’

‘Lady Meadows, I perceived, was a little offended at this ſo poſitive a declaration; but, I had nothing for it but ſteadineſs. I expected, ſaid ſhe, more compliance from that ſweet⯑neſs I have been fond of ſuppoſing in your temper, and from your good ſenſe, a greater attention to your own intereſt. I aſſured her, that it was and ever ſhould be my ſincereſt endeavour to avoid offending her; that I would admit no offer but ſuch as ſhe ſhould approve; and that I would guard my heart againſt any preference which was not au⯑thoriſed by her; more than this I told her was not in my power to promiſe, for no conſidera⯑tion of intereſt could prevail upon me to give my hand to a man, whom it was impoſſible for me either to love or eſteem.’

‘Finding ſhe liſtened to me patiently, I urged every argument my imagination could furniſh me with, to prove to her that ſuch an engage⯑ment, [123] entered into upon pecuniary motives only, could not be happy, and might be very miſerable. I begged ſhe would not think of diſpoſing of me in marriage, till I ſeemed leſs ſatisfied with my preſent happy lot; and that, by giving me no ſuperior duties in domeſtic life to fulfil, ſhe might entitle herſelf to all my undivided cares, affection, and aſſiduity.’

‘My aunt ſeemed affected with what I ſaid: ſhe told me ſhe had no intention of forcing my inclination; that, loving me ſo well as ſhe did, it was natural for her to wiſh to ſee me ſettled; that Sir Iſaac Darby was a very ad⯑vantageous offer; ſhe recommended to me to conſider well what I refuſed, and to conquer my unreaſonable diſlike of him, if poſſible.’

‘If it were poſſible, madam, replied I, your command would make me attempt it, but— No more buts now, Henrietta, interrupted my aunt—Sir Iſaac dines here to-day; re⯑member I expect you will treat him civilly at leaſt, ſince he has ſo great a regard for you.’

‘I ſmiled, courteſied, and went out of the where this long converſation had been hold; for I heard the chaplain's ſtep in my aunt's dreſſing-room; and this being the hour when he generally joined us, I choſe to avoid ſeeing him then, for fear he ſhould prevail upon her [124] to exact ſomething more than civility from me to the odious wretch, who had thus bartered for me without my conſent.’

‘I did not appear in the dining-room till dinner was ready to be ſerved; my antiquated lover approached with a janty air, and a ſliding bow; and O! don't you pity me, my dear, kiſſed my hand, as he led me to my ſeat. Nothing but the reſpect I owed my aunt could have hindered me from laughing, at this ridiculous diſplay of gallantry in the old man; for age has no claim to our reverence, if not accompanied by thoſe qualities from whence it derives its worth. Wiſdom, gra⯑vity, experience, the triumph of reaſon over paſſions, prejudice, and folly: all theſe we expect to find in fulneſs of years, and theſe make its wrinkles not only reſpectable but even lovely.’

‘In Sir Iſaac Darby, age was contemptible as well as unlovely; he wanted to be young, in ſpite of time; he talked and laughed aloud; he ſtrutted about the room; he adjuſted his bag, for he was dreſt up to five and twenty; he hummed a tune: I ſat ſtaring with aſtoniſh⯑ment at him. When we were placed at table, I found myſelf oppoſite to him; and obſerving that he chewed his meat with great difficulty, [125] for want of teeth, I was reſolved to mortify him, by letting him perceive that I obſerved it, looking at him ſeveral times with a kind of ſenſibility for this ſo unavoidable a misfortune.’

‘From what had paſſed between my aunt and I in the morning, I had no reaſon to ima⯑gine that Sir Iſaac would be treated as a de⯑clared and authoriſed lover; but ſome time after dinner was over, Mr. Danvers withdrew, and my aunt, upon ſome trifling pretence, following him, I was left alone with the old baronet. I would inſtantly have quitted the room; but, remembring that my aunt had re⯑quired civility of me at leaſt, I reſolved not to affront him, by leaving him to himſelf; and ſince I was obliged to ſtay, I would draw ſome amuſement from the ridiculous ſcene be⯑fore me.’

‘I know not whether it was from any particu⯑lar archneſs in my looks juſt then (for I had compoſed my countenance to a kind of forced gravity) or whether the old man was at a loſs in what manner he ſhould form his addreſs; but it is certain, that all his confidence ſeemed now, for the firſt time, to forſake him, and he ſat ſilent during ſeveral minutes, ſtealing a glance at me every now and then; while I, with a formal air, played my fan, and in⯑creaſed [126] his confuſion by my ſilence. At length he quitted his own chair for that which my aunt had ſat in, and which was next me; and drawing it ſtill nearer to me, he made a mo⯑tion to take my hand, which I withdrew as haſtily as if a ſnake had touched it.’

‘This action a little diſconcerted him; but taking courage again, after a preluding hem, he began, Charming miſs Courteney, I don't doubt but lady Meadows has informed you of the violence of my—Here an unlucky cough interrupted his ſpeech, and held him ſo long, that he grew black in the face; his endeavours to ſuppreſs it having, as I believe, almoſt choaked him. I roſe up in a ſeeming [...]ight, as if I had deſigned to call for aſſiſtance; but finding his cough had ceaſed, I ſat down again at a greater diſtance than before.’

‘I fancy the town air does not agree with you, ſir, ſaid I, it is certainly very bad for aſthmatical diſorders.’

‘Oh, madam! ſaid he, this is no aſthma. I got a ſlight cold the other night at Spring-Gardens; for we ſtaid very late, and the ground was damp: but I came off better than any of my companions, two or three of whom are ſtill laid up with colds. But tell me, dear miſs Courteney, did you receive favourably [127] the declaration your aunt made in my name? may I hope, or am I doomed to deſpair? whined out the ſuperannuated enamorato, with an hideous ogle, which he deſigned for a lan⯑guiſh.’

‘Oh, good ſir! replied I, exceſſively ſhocked at his folly, theſe Arcadian ſtrains do not be⯑come your wiſdom and gravity. My aunt did mention your propoſals to me, but, I cannot accept them; I have no inclination to change my condition.’

‘How admirably this pretty ſeriouſneſs ſits on thoſe ſweet features! ſaid the wretch, looking confidently at me, without being in the leaſt mortified with my rebuke. But my dear miſs Courteney, you muſt change your mind—indeed you muſt—and your condition too, my fair one.’

"Perhaps I may, ſir, ſaid I.

"Oh, that charming perhaps! ſaid he, it re⯑ſtores "me to life.

‘Was there ever any thing ſo provoking, my dear? I proteſt I could hardly help abuſ⯑ing the ridiculous old man.’

‘I really think, ſir, ſaid I, looking at him with infinite contempt, that my ſeriouſneſs would become your age, as well as my youth; but, purſued I, riſing, to put an end to all [128] your hopes, be pleaſed to know, that I am determined never to give my hand till I can give my heart with it; for I have no no⯑tion of being perjured at the altar, and of vowing to love, honour and obey, when it is impoſſible for me to do either.’

‘I went out of the room when I had ſaid theſe words, leaving the baronet to mumble the ends of his fingers with his gums; for he affected to bite his nails, as ſome per⯑ſons who really have teeth, do, when they are angry.’

‘I met my aunt as I was going to my own chamber: What, Henrietta! ſaid ſhe, have you left ſir Iſaac alone?— I ſuppoſe you have treated him rudely; but come, you muſt re⯑turn with me— I will, if you inſiſt upon it, madam, ſaid I, but I had much rather be excuſed— Indeed! ſaid my aunt, looking a little angrily on me, and with that grave face too, but I ſhall not inſiſt upon it, miſs, and ſo you may go up to your own room if you pleaſe.’

‘Although I was very glad to be at liberty to retire, yet my aunt's permiſſion was given in ſuch a manner that I ſaw ſhe was offended with me for deſiring it. I had experienced [129] the obſtinacy of her temper on ſeveral occa⯑ſions; and I was convinced that if ſhe ſet her heart upon marrying me to the baronet, ſhe would uſe her utmoſt endeavours to carry her point, and the loſs of her favour might pro⯑bably be the conſequence of her diſappoint⯑ment.’

CHAP. V.

‘FULL of theſe melancholy reflections, I reſolved to write to Mr. Bale, acquaint him with what had paſſed, and intreat his advice in the uneaſy and perplexed ſtate of my mind. Not that I had the leaſt intention of being governed by it, if he recommended to me compliance with my aunt's commands in favour of the baronet; but this I was well aſſured, from his good ſenſe and natural rec⯑titude of mind, he would not do, ſince it could never be ſuppoſed that ſuch a man could be my choice; but I was willing to ſtand clear in his opinion, and pay him that deference, [130] that was due to the quality of guardian which he had ſo kindly aſſumed.’

‘I had been writing near three hours, for I had given him a circumſtantial detail of every thing that had paſſed with regard to the ba⯑ronet, whoſe character I treated with great contempt; but what was worſe, my aunt herſelf did not eſcape ſome ſatirical ſtrokes of my pen for her ready concurrence with the old man's propoſals; and although I men⯑tioned her (as it was my duty) with all ima⯑ginable love and reſpect, yet I could not help humorouſly raillying upon ſome of her notions, which were really odd enough, and I placed them in the moſt glaring light.’

‘The prodigious length of my letter firſt gave me notice that I had been a long time thus employed; and, looking at my watch, I found it was paſt our uſual hour for tea, and wondered that I had not been ſummoned down ſtairs. I therefore made haſte to con⯑clude my letter, that I might ſend it to the poſt, when my aunt unfortunately entered the room. I ſtarted up from my chair when I ſaw her; and, haſtily cruſhing the letter all in my hand, I put it into my pocket, not without betraying ſome ſigns of confu⯑ſion.’

[131] ‘So, Henrietta, ſaid my aunt, have I caught you? Caught me! madam, ſaid I, con⯑ſidering whether ſhe might not have been looking over my ſhoulder while I was writ⯑ing ſo ſaucily about her; for guilt like love makes every thing ſeem poſſible that we fear. Yes, ſaid ſhe, have you not been writing? Nay, don't deny it, purſued ſhe (for I heſi⯑tated and knew not what to ſay, left ſhe ſhould deſire to ſee my letter) it is no won⯑der that poor ſir Iſaac Darby was rejected with ſo much ſcorn, when there is a fa⯑voured lover with whom you correſpond privately.’

‘Bleſs me, madam, cried I, who has told you ſo? I correſpond privately with a fa⯑voured lover!— This is ſome cruel calumny invented by an enemy to deprive me of your good opinion. Well, ſaid my aunt, ſhew me the letter you conveyed ſo haſtily into your pocket upon my appearance, and then I ſhall know what to think.’

‘You never, madam, replied I, uſed to de⯑ſire to ſee my letters; nor would you now, but in conſequence of ſome ſuſpicion very un⯑favourable to me. That ſuſpicion, inter⯑rupted my aunt, whatever it is, will be greatly [132] ſtrengthened by your refuſing to ſhew me what you have been writing.’

‘Surely, madam, replied I, that is not juſt, I may have been writing to Mr. Bale, or to my brother. To your brother, ſaid my aunt, I am certain you was not writing, becauſe you have not heard from him for ſe⯑veral months, and don't know how to direct to him (which indeed was but too true). It is poſſible that you were writing to Mr. Bale; but why refuſe to ſhew me your letter? you can have no tranſactions with him that I ought not to be acquainted with: but I am perſuaded that letter was not deſigned for Mr. Bale; and there needs no more to convince me that you are carrying on a private, and therefore an improper correſpondence, than your thus obſtinately refuſing to ſhew it me.’

‘My aunt had reaſon for what ſhe ſaid: nothing was more eaſy, if I was really inno⯑cent, than to ſhew her the letter, which would remove her ſuſpicions; but this, as I had managed that fatal letter, it was impoſ⯑ſible for me to do. By not ſhewing it, I confirmed thoſe ſuſpicions ſhe had ſo unjuſtly conceived, which might indeed have diſagree⯑able conſequences; but by ſhewing it, I was [133] ſure to incur her reſentment for the liberties I had taken with her.’

‘How did I that moment inwardly regret my vanity, which had ſuffered me to railly the faults of a perſon on whom I ſo abſo⯑lutely depended, merely to diſplay my wit. I was ſo vexed at the dilemma to which I had reduced myſelf, that I burſt into tears.’

‘Oh! I ſee how it is, ſaid my aunt, keep your letter, Henrietta, I am convinced ſuf⯑ficiently. She hurried out of my chamber at theſe words. Shocked to the ſoul at having thus incurred the imputation of entertaining a ſecret lover, I went after her, reſolving in that firſt emotion to ſhew her the letter, and rather be thought ungrateful to her, than guilty of an imprudence ſo diſadvantageous to my character; but ſhe was already at the bottom of the ſtairs, and I had time to make new reflections which prevented my former purpoſe.’

‘I conſidered that ſince there was no foun⯑dation for her fears that I liſtened to a private addreſs, I might eaſily find means to unde⯑ceive her, and juſtify myſelf; but if I ſhewed her a letter, in which ſhe was mentioned with ſo great freedom, I might poſſibly never be able to remove thoſe ill impreſſions of me [134] which ſhe would doubtleſs receive, and I ſhould be all my life branded for ingratitude.’

‘I was ſo terrified at this thought, that I re⯑ſolved to put it out of my power to expo [...] myſelf to ſuch a misfortune by deſtroying the fatal letter, which I did with a precipitation that left no time for ſecond thoughts. When this was over, I expected to have found my⯑ſelf more calm and eaſy, but it was quite otherwiſe. I had given foundation to be⯑lieve that I was engaged in a love-intrigue; for ſurely all clandeſtine addreſſes may be termed ſo, ſince there is too much myſtery, contrivance, and little arts, neceſſary to them, not to give great pain to a delicate mind. I burſt into tears at the reflection. My aunt's woman, who had a very tender regard for me, came into my chamber, and, finding me ſo diſordered, begged to know what had happened.’

‘I related every thing that had paſſed be⯑tween my aunt and I, but did not own to all the little freedoms I had taken with her in my letter; yet ſaid enough to convince her, that I could not well ſhow it to my aunt.’

‘Mrs. White, for that was her name, was very much concerned for my ſituation: ſhe told me, that her lady and Mr. Danvers were [135] in cloſe conference. It is certainly he, ſaid ſhe, who has infuſed theſe ſuſpicions into my lady, which, by this unfortunate circum⯑ſtance of the letter, are now confirmed: ſhe gave me ſuch plain hints of the chaplain's ſelfiſh diſpoſitions and deſigns, that it ſeemed highly probable he would ſpare no artifices to leſſen my aunt's affection for me; for, ſince he had failed in making me a convert, which perhaps might have anſwered other views, he was deſirous of keeping my aunt entirely to himſelf, and ſo manage her conſcience, which he had the direction of, as that holy mother-church and he might divide her ſpoils.’

‘All this conſidered, my condition ſeemed ſo dangerous, that I begged Mrs. White to ſend a porter with a meſſage from me to Mr. Bale, deſiring to ſee him; for I reſolved to regulate my conduct on this occaſion wholly by his advice. She left me to do what I had deſired her; and I remained alone in my chamber till nine o'clock, at which time I was ſummoned to ſupper.’

‘I found only my aunt and Mr. Danvers: I was a little confuſed; for knowing what ſuſ⯑picions I laboured under in my aunt's mind, I thought I had the air of a guilty perſon, and [136] I felt that I bluſhed, and bluſhed the more for that reaſon.’

‘My aunt looked very coldly upon me; Mr. Danvers looked like one that was very much concerned that all was not well between us: my aunt ſcarce ſpoke three words during ſupper; it was not my part ſurely to talk much; and Mr. Danvers accommodated himſelf to the preſent temper of my aunt; ſo that this was a very gloomy meal.’

‘When the cloth was removed, I was going to withdraw, for it ſeemed as if my preſence was a reſtraint upon my aunt; but I conſi⯑dered that ſuch a ſtep being unuſual, would imply a conſciouſneſs of ſomething wrong in me, and that being innocent, it was my part to ſeck an explanation. I therefore addreſſed myſelf to my aunt, and begged ſhe would give me an opportunity of clearing myſelf, by teſt⯑ing me who had poiſoned her mind with ſuſ⯑picions to my prejudice.’

‘The chaplain was about to leave the room upon my entering on this ſubject. There is no neceſſity, ſir, ſaid I, for your r [...]g I dare ſay the cauſe of my aunt's diſpleaſure againſt me is no ſecret to you. My aunt has been told that I receive addreſſes from ſome man in private, and that I correſpond with [137] him; I declare this to be abſolutely falſe, and I beg to know from whom you had your infor⯑mation, madam, ſaid I, again directing my⯑ſelf to her, that I may refuſe this calumny; I am very confident the perſon who has thus ma⯑liciouſly injured me, will not dare to maintain the falſhood to my face.’

‘Whether the chaplain thought this was meant for him, I know not; but although he had continued ſtanding, as if he intended to leave us to ourſelves, yet I had no ſooner uttered theſe laſt words than he reſumed his ſeat im⯑mediately, as if he would ſhew me he was not in the leaſt affected by them; but I obſerved that he fixed his eyes upon my aunt, and ex⯑pected her anſwer with ſome emotion.’

‘Before I comply with your condition, ſaid my aunt, do you, Henrietta, agree to mine; let me ſee that letter you wrote to-day. I looked at the chaplain; I ſaw an alteration in his countenance, he was evidently more com⯑poſed. Oh! thought I, ſighing, how great would my triumph be, if I had this letter to ſhow, and could ſhow it without fear!’

‘You heſitate, Henrietta, purſued my aunt, why, if that letter was not to a lover, why do you refuſe to produce it? I declare, madam, ſaid I, upon my word and honour, that the [138] letter was to Mr. Bale— Well, let me ſee it, ſaid my aunt, and I ſhall be ſatisfied— I can⯑not ſhow it to you, madam, replied I, in a faultering accent (for I dreaded the inference that would be drawn from what I was going to confeſs) I have torn it. Well, ſaid my aunt, with a calmneſs that coſt her ſome pains to maintain; and why did you fear it▪ it was not written to be torn, that is certain— But I will anſwer for you, niece, you tore it that I might not ſee it; and why might I not ſee it, if it was to Mr. Bale— Again I p [...]ſt, ſaid I, that it was to him; but I did not chuſe to let you ſee it, it was a long letter, full of impertinences: you would have thought I was very free in my obſervations on ſome particular perſons, more free than became me perhaps—You might have been offended, and I tore it to prevent your ſeeing it.’

‘My aunt looked down, pauſed, and ſeemed not wholly diſſatisfied with my manner of ac⯑counting for the reluctance I ſhewed to deliver my letter to her; but before ſhe would declare herſelf, it was neceſſary ſhe ſhould conſult her oracle, and that could not be done before me. She therefore put an end to the conver⯑ſation, by ringing the bell for her woman. I attended her to her chamber, at the door of [139] which ſhe bade me good night, telling me, ſhe would talk further with me in the morn⯑ing.’

‘I endeavoured to make Mrs. White com⯑prehend, by a look I gave her unobſerved, that I wiſhed to ſpeak to her; and according⯑ly ſhe came to me, after my aunt was in bed, and delivered the anſwer the porter had brought from Mr. Bale's; he was out of town, but expected back in a week or two, was what the ſervants told him.’

‘Mrs. White repeated her offers of ſervice to me, but dropped ſome expreſſions that ſhewed ſhe would be glad to be aſſured that I really had no ſecret engagement which might juſtify my aunt's concern.’

‘Theſe doubts hinted with great reſpect, were ſo far from being reſented by me, that I conceived the better opinion of her diſcretion, and confided abſolutely in her ſincerity. I made her quite eaſy with regard to the ſubject of her fears; and ſhe repaid this condeſcenſion with the kindeſt aſſurances of attachment to me and care of my intereſts.’

‘I went to bed, full of hope that I had in part removed my aunt's ſuſpicions, and re⯑lying on my innocence, I was perſuaded I ſhould ſoon reſtore myſelf to her good opinion; [140] but innocence is not always a ſecurity to its poſſeſſor, becauſe malice attains its ends by arts, which a good mind cannot conceive, and there⯑fore is unable to guard againſt.’

‘Mrs. White informed me in a whiſper, as I was going into my aunt's dreſſing-room next morning, where we always breakfaſted, that her lady and the chaplain had been talking together for half an hour. I drew no favour⯑able omen from this intelligence, nor from my aunt's looks, which were very cold and conſtrained.’

‘When breakfaſt was over, and Mr. Dan⯑vers had withdrawn, I expected ſhe would enter into ſome converſation with me on the ſubject of the letter; but finding ſhe talked of different things, I took occaſion to mention it myſelf, and begged to know if ſhe had any doubts ſtill remaining in her mind.’

‘Surely, replied my aunt, you think I am a perſon that can be very eaſily impoſed upon. Then you are reſolved, madam, ſaid I, with ſome peeviſhneſs (for indeed I was horridly vexed to find her ſo ſtrongly prejudiced) to believe I encourage a clandeſtine addreſs, notwithſtanding every appearance to the con⯑trary.’

[141] ‘No indeed, interrupted my aunt, I am not ſo unreaſonable, miſs; it is becauſe there are very ſtrong appearances againſt you, that I am forced to believe what you would not have me—that letter, Henrietta—but no more on this ſubject at preſent, I am going to my houſe near Windſor-foreſt to-morrow; we ſhall there have leiſure enough to talk over this affair, and there I ſhall open my mind freely to you. I courtiſied and was ſilent.’

‘My aunt took me with her to pay ſome morning viſits, and ſeemed to be in very good humour; but her words, that ſhe would open her mind freely to me at Windſor, gave me a great deal of anxiety. I did not doubt but I was to be preſt again on the ſubject of ſir Iſaac Darby, and I was prepared for an obſtinate reſiſtance; but I was apprehenſive that this reſiſtance to my aunt's will, meet⯑ing with the unaccountable ſuſpicions ſhe had entertained, would infallibly ruin me with her. O my brother! thought I, why are you not here to countenance and protect me; or why have you ſo long neglected me, as to leave me in ſuſpence whether I have a brother or not!’

‘This thought, and ſeveral others no leſs painful, ſpread an air of penſiveneſs and me⯑lancholy [142] on my countenance, which my aunt, as I perceived, by ſome hints that dropped from her, interpreted to my diſadvantage. In ſhort, my dear, ſhe imputed my penſive⯑neſs to the concern I was under at leaving town, as I could not expect to have many op⯑portunities of ſeeing at Windſor this lover that had poſſeſſion of my heart.’

‘You cannot imagine, miſs Woodby, how much I ſuffered in being obliged to reſtrain my indignation at being thus treated: to have a phantom of a lover conjured up to [...] me with, and to combat ſuſpicions which had not the leaſt foundation, but in prejudice and caprice, againſt which plain truth and reaſon were very unequal arms: for how ſhould rea⯑ſon remove what would never have been ad⯑mitted, if reaſon had not been firſt [...] a [...] Nothing was ever more improbable than that I ſhould have a ſecret lover: I never went [...] where without my aunt; her viſitors were mine; I could ſee no body without her know⯑ledge: how was this engagement formed? But her chaplain had doubtleſs aſſured her, that I had a ſecret engagement, and ſhe piouſ⯑ly believed him, in contradiction to her own judgment: this was one of thoſe caſes that re⯑quired an implicit faith; and in matters of [143] faith, you know, Roman catholicks are not permitted to exerciſe their reaſon.’

‘We ſet out next morning for Windſor, the chaplain and my aunt's woman being in the coach, the converſation was wholly upon in⯑different things. After dinner was over, my aunt took me into her cloſet, and entered into a long diſcourſe, which it would tire you to repeat— but the ſubſtance of it was my un⯑happy ſituation, when ſhe took me out of the hands of lady Manning— her tenderneſs for me; the great things ſhe deſigned to do for me, nothing leſs than making me her ſole heir; the folly of marrying for love, exem⯑plified in my father's marriage; her fears that I was going to throw myſelf away on ſome young fop, who would make me miſerable; ſir Iſaac Darby's generous paſſion for me, his great eſtate, the handſome ſettlements he pro⯑poſed to make; and laſtly, the pleaſure I would give her, by ſuiting in this caſe my in⯑clinations to my intereſt.’

‘To all this I anſwered very particularly; I acknowledged ſhe had ſhewn a parental ten⯑derneſs for me, and I had paid her, and ever would pay her, I ſaid, the duty and obedience due from a child to a parent: that in the ar⯑ticle of marriage, my natural parents would [144] certainly have allowed me a negative voice, which was all I claimed now, ſince I was ab⯑ſolutely reſolved not only never to marry with⯑out her conſent, but not to admit of any ad⯑dreſs which ſhe diſapproved. I begged her never to propoſe ſir Iſaac Darby to me again, becauſe my heart wholly rejected him; tho' at the ſame time I proteſted (as I might well do) that my affections were entirely diſengaged.’

‘All your aſſeverations, replied my aunt (who had liſtened to me with many ſigns of impatience) ſignify nothing without you many ſir Iſaac Darby; and by that only ſhall I be convinced that your head does not run upon ſome wild ſhowy fellow, who will make your heart ake.’

‘Here (continued ſhe) is a baronet of an an⯑cient family, a large eſtate, of good morals not diſagreeable in his perſon— but what is perſon in a man? who loves you, who will make you a large jointure, who gives you a title, place, equipage, all that a prudent ſen⯑ſible woman can deſire, and you refuſe him; grant that he is older than you, he has the more wiſdom— O my dear, how difficult it was for me to forbear laughing here; but you are not in love with him— let me tell you, Henrietta, that is not a plea for a young [145] woman of delicacy—What, is it not poſſible for you to make a good wife to an honeſt gen⯑tleman, without bringing with you all that romantick paſſion which forces girls to jump out of windows to get to their fellows; and, for the ſake of a man who poſſibly a few weeks before was an abſolute ſtranger to them, break through every tie of natural affection, and, to be a wife, be contented to be neither daughter, ſiſter, or niece.’

‘I was going to ſpeak— My aunt in a pe⯑remptory manner laid her hand on my mouth. I will not hear a word more, ſaid ſhe, on this ſubject; if you refuſe to give your hand to ſir Iſaac, I know what I am to think—I give you two days to conſider of it. I have hitherto treated you as my own child; if you com⯑ply you ſhall find me a mother, if not I am only your aunt; and you know how ſome who ſtand in that degree of relation to you be⯑have. This was pretty plain, my dear: I was ſo ſhocked that I ſuffered my aunt to go out of the cloſet without making any anſwer; and retired to my own chamber to weep in free⯑dom.’

CHAP. VI.

‘IT was indeed true that my father's family took no notice of me, notwithſtanding the applications that had been made to them; and when my aunt Meadows introduced me at my uncle's the earl of—, I was received ſo coldly by him and his lady, that I inly re⯑ſolved never to expoſe myſelf to ſuch a mor⯑tification again, and my aunt entered ſo far into my juſt reſentment as never to preſs me to make them a ſecond viſit.’

‘My brother was abroad; if living he neg⯑lected me; and perhaps I had no brother; for how elſe could I account for ſo long a ſilence in one who ſeemed to have ſuch tender affections? I had no reſource but in Mr. Bale's friendſhip, and he was at this time unluckily at too great a diſtance to be of any uſe to me I ſaw plainly that I muſt either accept ſir Iſaa [...] Darby's hand, or be thrown back into m [...] former indigence and dependence—Dreadfu [...] [147] alternative!— But the man conſidered, was there room to pauſe long?’

‘My imagination ſuggeſted to me every poſ⯑ſible ill conſequence of the loſs of my aunt's favour, but weighed againſt the miſery of ſuch a marriage, they all ſeemed light—Yet would you think it, my dear, amidſt the many real evils I had reaſon to apprehend by diſobliging my aunt, one trifling circumſtance dwelt ſtrongeſt upon my mind, and that was the occaſion of triumph I ſhould give to lady Manning, who would exult over my fallen expectations and return to indigence. I was aſhamed of my own weakneſs when I found this thought capable of giving me ſo much pain; and in the contemplation of greater miſ⯑fortunes which were likely to be my lot, I ſought to blunt my ſenſe of theſe leſſer ones which were the neceſſary conſequences of them.’

‘Towards evening Mrs. White threw her⯑ſelf in my way, as I was walking penſive in the garden. She told me that my aunt was full of hopes that I would comply: that ſir Iſaac was to be invited to-morrow; and that it was expected the generoſity of his propoſals with regard to ſettlements, the rich preſents of jewels which he would offer, and his reſo⯑lution [148] to agree to every thing I deſired, would make ſuch an impreſſion on my mind, as to induce me to give a free and willing conſent. Mrs. White added, that ſince my aunt was ſo determined upon concluding this match, ſhe wiſhed I could conquer my averſion to it; for ſhe feared that my abſolute refuſal would ſo irritate her, that ſhe might be eaſily per⯑ſuaded to take ſome violent reſolution againſt me; and there is one, ſaid ſhe, who will ſpare no pains to bring that to paſs.’

‘I replied, that nothing which could befal me from the loſs of my aunt's favour, was to be dreaded ſo much as being the wiſe of ſir Iſaac Darby; and that my reſolution was fixed. Mrs. White ſighed, ſhrugged her ſhoulders, and haſtened from me for fear of being ob⯑ſerved, ſeeming, as I thought, to believe my caſe deſperate.’

‘When ſhe was gone, I conſidered that if I accepted of the two days my aunt had given me to come to a reſolution, I ſhould be ex⯑poſed during that time to the odious courtſhip of ſir Iſaac, whoſe preſence was, it ſeems, judged neceſſary to influence me; I therefore determined to declare myſelf immediately, and plunge at once into the diſtreſſes that awaited me.’

[149] ‘I left the garden inſtantly, and went in ſearch of my aunt; as ſoon as I entered the room where ſhe was, ſhe laid down a book ſhe had been reading, and looked earneſtly at me, ſeeming, by my countenance on which I be⯑lieve was impreſſed the agitation of my mind, to expect ſomething extraordinary.’

‘You have indulged me, madam, ſaid I, with two days to conſider of your propoſal with re⯑gard to ſir Iſaac Darby; but ſo long a time is not neceſſary: were any thing leſs at ſtake than the future happineſs of my life, you ſhould find me incapable of oppoſing your will; but in this caſe it is not poſſible for me to obey you. Judge of my averſion to that man, when I pro⯑teſt to you, that if death or his hand was an alternative that I muſt chuſe, I would with⯑out heſitation prefer death as the leſſer hard⯑ſhip.’

‘This determined ſpeech ſeemed to ſurpriſe my aunt, though I think ſhe had no reaſon to expect I could ever be prevailed upon to marry ſir Iſaac.’

‘You are an undone girl, ſaid ſhe, after a pauſe of near three minutes; I believe your father's folly is hereditary to you—I have done my duty—Your obſtinacy be upon your own head.’

[150] ‘I confeſs I was greatly affected with her calm reſentment, ſo likely to be laſting: I burſt into tears; ſhe went out of the room, I followed her into another, where Mr. Dan⯑vers was ſitting. As ſoon as I perceived him, I haſtily withdrew, for I was not willing to be ſeen by him in that ſtate of dejection— I re⯑tired to my own room, and there; after I had relieved my mind by another flood of tears, I endeavoured to ſoften my own apprehenſions of what might be the effects of having diſ⯑obliged the only relation who would own me, and collected all my fortitude to enable me to bear the worſt that could happen. But that worſt, my dear, proved ſo terrible to my frighted imagination, that to avoid it, I have taken a very imprudent and dangerous ſtep, and whither it will lead me, Heaven knows; for my heart forebodes ſome fatal conſequence from it.’

"Lord bleſs me!" ſaid miſs Woodby, ‘after eſcaping ſuch an odious huſband as ſir Iſaac, was any thing worſe to be feared!’

"Ah!" cried miſs Courteney; ‘but it was not certain whether I ſhould eſcape him; for if my aunt's ſcheme had taken place, I had every thing to fear.’ ‘What could your aunt's ſcheme be?’ ſaid miſs Woodby, impa⯑tiently. [151] "Mr. Danvers's rather," ſaid miſs Courteney, "and its being his made it more "formidable.

‘My aunt ſeemed ſo eaſy and chearful at ſupper, and ſpoke to me ſo kindly, that all my gloomy apprehenſions vaniſhed, and I was happy in the thought that I ſhould pre⯑ſerve her favour without becoming the wife of ſir Iſaac Darby; but I was ſoon undeceived. Mrs. White tapp'd at my door, after ſhe had put my aunt to bed; I let her in, and, in a rapture of joy, I told her how favourably my aunt ſeemed diſpoſed, and that I ſhould no longer be perſecuted about the odious baronet. O miſs! ſaid ſhe, I am afraid this calm fore⯑tels a ſtorm. A ſtorm, repeated I, what do you mean?’

‘I always dreaded, ſaid ſhe, that Mr. Dan⯑vers would uſe his power with my lady to your diſadvantage; but who could have imagined that he would prevail upon her to ſend you to France, and lock you up in a nunnery?’

‘How! exclaimed I, almoſt breathleſs with terror and ſurpriſe—Confine me in a nun⯑nery! Is it poſſible—How came you to know this?’

‘By the ſtrangeſt chance in the world, re⯑plied Mrs. White. I am not uſed to liſten, [152] I ſcorn it; but ſome words that fell from the chaplain, alarmed me on your account, and I reſolved, if poſſible, to know what he was driving at. This evening, purſued ſhe, I went to my lady to take her directions about ſome laces I was making up for her. I found the chaplain with her: they ſeemed to be in deep diſcourſe; and my lady, as if angry at being interrupted, bid me, in a haſty manner, come to her another time. I went away immediately; and juſt as I ſhu [...] the door, I heard the chaplain ſay, Depend upon it, madam, there is no other way to preſerve her from ruin. Certainly, thought I to myſelf, this muſt concern miſs Courteney; I put my ear to the key-hole, and heard my lady an⯑ſwer, But ſhall I not be called a [...] ſending my niece to a convent con [...]y to her inclinations?’

‘The chaplain made a long ſpeech, which I could not diſtinctly hear; but he told her ſhe muſt make a ſacrifice of ſuch idle cenſures to God; that it was her duty to endeavour to ſave a ſoul; that you were in a ſtate of per⯑dition; and oh, my dear miſs! but that I cannot believe, he aſſured her you would throw yourſelf away upon the idle fellow [153] (thoſe were his words) that you were in love with, if not prevented by bolts and bars.’

‘In the end my lady ſeemed determined, and they conſulted together about the means they ſhould uſe, to entrap you into a convent. My lady propoſed making a tour to Paris, by way of amuſement, to take you with her, and leave you in ſome monaſtery. Mr. Dan⯑vers, I found, objected to that; he deſired ſhe would leave the affair wholly to his manage⯑ment, and ſaid he would think of ſome expe⯑dient that would be leſs troubleſome to her. I did not ſtay to hear any more; for I was apprehenſive of ſome of the ſervants coming that way, and diſcovering me at ſo mean a trick as liſtening.’

‘Good God! cried I, what ſhall I do? what ſhall I do? repeated I paſſionately, in the anguiſh of my mind. My guardian is not in town! to whom ſhall I apply for advice and aſſiſtance in this extremity? I may be hurried away to this horrid confinement, when I leaſt expect it.’

‘That is impoſſible, ſaid Mrs. White; fore⯑warned forearmed, as the ſaying is. Since you know what is intended againſt you, you muſt be upon your guard; you cannot be car⯑ried away againſt your will.’

[154] ‘Mrs. White did not appear to me to have a very juſt ſenſe of the danger I was expoſed to; for what will not bigotry attempt! I was glad therefore when ſhe left me to my own re⯑flections; which ſhe did, after begging me to be compoſed, and not to diſcover the manner in which I came by the intelligence ſhe had given me.’

‘The latter part of her injunction I faith⯑fully promiſed to perform; but, oh! my dear miſs Woodby, how was it poſſible for me to be compoſed amidſt ſuch dreadful apprehen⯑ſions?—To be locked up in a gloomy mo⯑naſtery, perhaps for ever, expoſed to the per⯑ſecutions of ſuperſtitious zeal: but, this was not the worſt of my fears — To be con⯑ſigned over, perhaps, to the care of a wolf in ſheep's cloathing, who had already ſhocked my delicacy with freedoms, that, proceeding from ſuch a man, in ſuch a character, might well awaken the moſt frightful ſuſpicions.’

"Truly," ſaid miſs Woodby, ‘that ſeemed to be the worſt part of your danger; for I don't like this jeſuit at all, every thing may be dreaded from a hypocrite: but, as to the being ſhut up in a convent, there is no great matter in it. Such beauty as yours would have ſoon engaged ſome adventurous knight in your [155] cauſe, who would have ſcaled the walls to have delivered you—Oh, what a charming adventure! I proteſt I would ſubmit to a few months confinement in ſuch a place, for the pleaſure of being delivered from it in ſo gallant a manner.’

"Sure you are not in earneſt," ſaid Henrietta. "Indeed but I am," replied miſs Woodby. "Well," reſumed miſs Courteney, ‘you have very whimſical notions; but I aſſure you none of theſe entered into my head: the loſs of li⯑berty ſeemed to me ſo frightful a misfortune, that I was almoſt diſtracted with the idea of it.’

‘The firſt thought that occurred to me, and which indeed was the moſt natural, was to prevent my aunt from carrying her deſigns into execution, by leaving her. I might well imagine ſhe would uſe violence to detain me, if I attempted it openly; therefore it was ne⯑ceſſary to ſteal myſelf away, and this has the air of an adventure you muſt own; but as I had no confident in this deſign, no gallant youth to aſſiſt me in my eſcape, and did not even make uſe of a ladder of ropes, or en⯑danger breaking my neck, I am afraid this adventure is not in a taſte high enough for you.’

[156]"Oh, you are rallying me!" ſaid miſs Wood⯑by; ‘but I long to know how you eſcaped; no confident! how could you manage ſo arduous an undertaking by yourſelf?’

"With great eaſe, I aſſure you," ſaid miſs Courteney; ‘and I don't think you will allow it to be an eſcape, when I tell you I walked peaceably out of a door, not without ſome tre⯑pidation however, which aroſe leſs from the fear of a purſuit, than the conſciouſneſs that I was taking a ſtep which every young woman of delicacy will if poſſible avoid.’

‘As I have already told you, I inſtantly re⯑ſolved upon leaving my aunt; but where ſhould I ſeek an aſylum? Mr. Bale, whoſe protec⯑tion I might have requeſted with honour, was not in town; my brother was abroad; none of my father's relations would receive me; I had no acquaintances but ſuch as were my aunt's, to whom any application would have been very improper, as I ſhould have found very ſtrong prejudices to combat with; it be⯑ing a received maxim among perſons of a certain age, that young people are always in the wrong; beſides, one ſeldom meets with any one who has not that littleneſs, of ſoul which is miſtaken for prudence, and teaches that it is not ſafe to meddle with other peo⯑ple's [157] affairs, which narrow notion prevents many a good office, many a kind interpoſition; ſo that we ſeem to live only for ourſelves.’

‘My perplexed mind could ſuggeſt no better expedient to me, than to ſeize the firſt oppor⯑tunity that offered to go to London, and there conceal myſelf in a private lodging till Mr. Bale's return, who I doubted not would take me under his protection. Before I had fixed upon this reſolution, great part of the night was waſted; ſo that I lay later than uſual the next morning. When I went down to break⯑faſt, I found my aunt dreſſed, and her coach ordered. She took notice that my eyes looked heavy; I told her I had a violent headach, which indeed was true: ſhe ſaid it was a cold, and bid me keep myſelf warm.’

‘I am going to Richmond, added ſhe, it will be late before I return to dinner; there⯑fore let the cook get you a chicken when you chuſe to dine, and don't walk out to increaſe your cold.’

‘My heart leaped ſo when I found I was to be left at home, that I was afraid my emotion was viſible in my countenance. My aunt however did not obſerve it; for, apparently, ſhe had no ſuſpicion that I knew any thing of her deſign to ſend me to a convent: and [158] therefore ſhe could not poſſibly gueſs my in⯑tention to leave her. But ſhe certainly over⯑acted her part, all on a ſudden to drop her fa⯑vourite ſcheme, the marrying me to ſir Iſaac Darby; and when I might reaſonably expect that my obſtinate refuſal to comply with her deſires, would create ſome coldneſs in her to⯑wards me, to find her not only free from all reſentment, but even particularly kind and obliging. Sure this was ſufficient to raiſe doubts in my mind, that ſomething more than ordinary was at the bottom of all this af⯑fability.’

‘It often happens that cunning over-reaches itſelf; for it ſeldom hits a medium, and gene⯑rally does too much or too little. My aunt's behaviour would have led me to ſuſpect that ſome deſign was forming againſt me; but if it had not been for Mrs. White's information, I ſhould never have been able to diſcover what it was, for my own penetration would have gone no further than to ſuggeſt, that ſome ſcheme was laid to bring about my marriage with ſir Iſaac Darby; but this fear would have been ſufficient to have winged my flight, ſo that the arts my aunt made uſe of to lull me into ſecurity, proved the very foundation of my doubts.’

[159] ‘I had a new palpitation of the heart when I ſaw the chaplain follow my aunt into the coach. Sure! thought I, Heaven approves of my deſign to get away, ſince ſo many cir⯑cumſtances concur to make it practicable. It was natural, my dear, as my religion was in danger from the perſecutions preparing for me, to think Heaven intereſted in the ſucceſs of my intended eſcape.’

‘There is certainly ſomething very pleaſing in ſuppoſing one's ſelf the peculiar care of Providence on certain occaſions. A Roman catholick would have made little leſs than a miracle of ſo favourable a concurrence of cir⯑cumſtances. However I ſuppreſſed this riſing ſally of ſpiritual vanity, and employed my thoughts in contriving how to get to town with convenience and ſafety, without expecting any ſupernatural aſſiſtance.’

Here miſs Woodby broke in upon the fair nar⯑rater, with an exclamation that will be found in the following chapter.

CHAP. VII.

"OH! my dear," interrupted miſs Wood⯑by, laughing, ‘you have given an ex⯑cellent name to a ſpecies of folly, which at once excites one's laughter and indignation. I know an old lady who is a conſtant fre⯑quenter of the chapel in Oxford-road, that has arrived to ſuch a heighth of ſpiritual va⯑nity as you juſtly term it, that ſhe [...]ies Providence is perpetually exerting itſelf in mi⯑racles for her preſervation, and that her moſt inconſiderable actions are under the imme⯑diate direction of Heaven; for ſhe will tell you with ſurpriſing meekneſs and humility, that unworthy as ſhe is, ſhe is in high favour with God; if ſhe happens to ſtumble againſt a ſtone without falling, ſhe ſays, with a ſmile of conſcious ſatisfaction, To be ſure God is very good to me. According to her, God acts by partial, not by general laws. And ſhould it ceaſe raining immediately before ſhe is to go out, either to church or a viſit, it is all one, ſhe ſuppoſes that Providence is at that [161] moment at work for her, and has cleared the ſkies that ſhe may walk with conveniency; for ſhe cannot always purchaſe a coach or a chair, half of her little income being appro⯑priated to the preachers, from whoſe doctrine ſhe has imbibed theſe ſelf-flattering ideas.’

"Oh!" ſaid miſs Courteney, laughing, ‘you have heightened the colouring of this picture exceedingly.’

"Upon my word I have not," ſaid miſs Woodby, ‘and— but that I am not willing to interrupt your ſtory ſo long, I could give you an hundred proofs of this odd ſpecies of pride; for I aſſure you, my dear, the haughtieſt beauty in the drawing-room, amidſt a croud of adorers and in the fulleſt diſplay of airs and graces, has not half the vanity of one of theſe ſaints of Whitefield's or Weſley's creation.’

"I really pity the poor woman you men⯑tioned," ſaid Henrietta; ‘ſhe appears to me to be very far from attaining to any degree of perfection: for may it not be ſuppoſed that this unreaſonable confidence will lead her to neglect many duties very eſ⯑ſential to a good chriſtian? For I have heard it obſerved, that the preachers of that ſect chiefly declaim againſt faſhionable ſollies; and, according to them, to dreſs with ele⯑gance [162] to go to a play or an opera, or to make one at a party of cards, are mortal ſins; mean time poor morals are wholly neglected, and ſuperſtition is made an equivalent for a vir⯑tuous life.’

"Yet a writer," replied miſs Woodby, ‘who is greatly admired by our ſex, and who in his works pays court to all religious, ca [...] ⯑ing himſelf ſo evenly amidſt them, that it is hard to diſtinguiſh to which he moſt inclines, has introduced theſe modern ſaints reclaiming a woman who had led a very vicious life, and doing more than all the beſt orthodox divines had done; and he has not thrown away his compliment: I dare ſay this numerous [...] has bought up an impreſſion of his book, and is not the third edition upon the title page a very good return to it? Oh! my dear, there is no vanity like the vanity of ſome authors: it is not to be doubted but if there were [...] men enough in the kingdom to add a unit more to the account of thoſe editions, but we ſhould find him introducing the alcoran, mak⯑ing proſelytes from luxury.— But how have we wandered from your ſtory— You are ſtill at Windſor — I long to hear the reſt.’

[163]"I aſſure you, my dear," ſaid miſs Cour⯑tency, ſighing, ‘I have not been ſorry for this little interruption; it has given ſome relief to my mind; for I know not how it is, but the recollection of this period is painful to me; and yet under the ſame terrors, and with the ſame apprehenſions, I ſhould certainly act again as I have done. I think I told you that Mr. Danvers went in the coach with my aunt; a circumſtance with which I had reaſon to be rejoiced, as it greatly facilitated my eſcape. I was ſtill lingering over the tea-table, uncer⯑tain in what manner I ſhould perform my little journey, when Mrs. White came into the room: ſhe was apprehenſive that I ſhould be uneaſy at my aunt's and the chaplain's excur⯑ſion together, as ſuppoſing it was to ſettle ſomething relating to their ſcheme; and there⯑fore made haſte to inform me, that my aunt had been ſummoned to Richmond, by a meſ⯑ſage from a Roman catholick friend of her's, who was dangerouſly ill there, and deſired to ſee her, together with Mr. Danvers, who was her ghoſtly father, as they term it.’

‘Mrs. White continued to talk to me on the ſubject of my aunt's deſign, while I was con⯑ſidering whether it would be proper to make her the confident of my intended flight to Lon⯑don, [164] and engage her to procure me ſome ve⯑hicle to carry me thither. But it was poſſible ſhe might not approve of my leaving my aunt ſo ſuddenly, in which caſe I ſhould find it dif⯑ficult to get away: beſides, I did not think it reaſonable to involve her in the conſequences of my flight, by making her privy to it; and that the only way to enable her to juſtify her⯑ſelf to my aunt was not to make her guilty. I therefore reſolved to ſteal out of the houſe, and go as far as I could on foot, not doubt⯑ing but chance would throw ſome carriage in my way, in which I might finiſh my journey; and, to gain all the time I could, I told Mrs. White, that my anxiety had hindered me from ſleeping all night; that I was not well, and would go to my chamber and try to get ſome repoſe, deſiring her not to diſturb me.’

‘Having thus got four hours at leaſt before me, I reſolved to write a ſhort letter to my aunt before I went. In this letter I told her, that having accidentally diſcovered her inten⯑tion of ſending me to a convent abroad, my terrors of ſuch a confinement had forced me to throw myſelf under the protection of Mr. Bale; that I hoped, through his mediation, to convince her I had been guilty of no impru⯑dences which could merit ſuch ſevere treat⯑ment [165] as a puniſhment, and was not ſo un⯑ſettled in my religion as to be perverted by that or any other means. I begged her to believe, that except in that article, and in marrying contrary to my inclinations, I would pay her the ſame obedience as to a parent; but that I would rather ſubmit to the loweſt ſtate of po⯑verty, than marry a man whom I could nei⯑ther love or eſteem; or change the religion in which I was bred, and with which I was en⯑tirely ſatisfied. I concluded with earneſtly intreating to be reſtored to her good opinion, which I aſſured her I would always endeavour to deſerve.’

‘Having ſcaled and directed this letter, I put it into one of my dreſſing-boxes, not doubt⯑ing but as ſoon as I was miſſing, every thing that belonged to me would be ſearched for letters, in hopes of further diſcoveries. I next tied up ſome linen in a handkerchief, and with an aking heart, ſallied out of my cham⯑ber, and croſſed a paſſage-room which had ſteps leading to the garden. As ſoon as I had got out of the back-door, which opened into the foreſt, I concluded myſelf ſafe from diſco⯑very, and mended my pace; having no dif⯑ficulty in finding my way, becauſe I purſued [166] the road which I had often traverſed in a coach or a chaiſe.’

‘You will eaſily imagine my mind was full of melancholy reflections, and indeed ſo en⯑tirely was I engroſſed by them for near an hour, that I did not perceive I was tired, till I grew ſo faint I was hardly able to move a ſtep far⯑ther. I had now got into the open road, and it being about the time when I might expect to ſee ſome of the ſtage-coaches from Wind⯑ſor paſs that way, I ſat down under the ſhade of a large tree, at ſome diſtance from the road, impatiently wiſhing for the ſight. All this time I had not been alarmed with the fear of meeting with any inſult, for I had ſeen no one from whom I could apprehend any ſuch thing; but I had ſcarce enjoyed this com⯑fortable ſhelter three minutes, when I per⯑ceived two ill looking fellows, as I thought them, making towards me with all the ſpeed they were able. I ſtarted up in inconceivable terror, looking round me to ſee if any help was near if they ſhould aſſault me, when I fortunately diſcovered the ſtage-coach; and being now eaſed of my fears, I reſumed my ſtation, till it was come near enough for me to ſpeak to the driver. The two fellows who had given me ſuch a terrible alarm, ſtopped [167] ſhort upon ſeeing the coach, and I really be⯑lieve I had an eſcape from them.’

‘I called out to the coachman as ſoon as he could hear me. You know, my dear, the difficulties I found in getting admiſſion. Little did thoſe good women, who refuſed it, ima⯑gine that to avoid a ſlight inconvenience to themſelves, they were conſigning me over to the greateſt diſtreſs imaginable.’

"Wretches!" exclaimed miſs Woodby, ‘I cannot think of them without deteſtation; but, my dear (purſued ſhe) did not you won⯑der to ſee a perſon of any figure in a ſtage-coach? As for you, I ſoon diſcovered there was ſomething extraordinary in your caſe: but what did you think of me with ſuch com⯑pany, and in ſuch an equipage?’

"Indeed, my dear," ſaid miſs Courteney, ‘at that time a ſtage-coach appeared to me a moſt deſirable vehicle, and I had not then the leaſt notion of its being a mean one; ſo greatly do our opinions of things alter with our cir⯑cumſtances and ſituations: beſides, a difficulty then occurred to my thoughts, which, amidſt the hurry and precipitation with which I quitted my aunt's houſe, had not been ſufficiently at⯑tended to before, and that was how I ſhould diſpoſe of myſelf for a few days, till Mr. Bale's [168] return; for it was neceſſary I ſhould conceal myſelf with great care, having ſo much to ap⯑prehend from my aunt's bigotry and preju⯑dices, and the (perhaps) intereſted officiouſneſs of her chaplain.’

‘Under what ſtrange diſadvantages had I lodgings to ſeek for! by an aſſumed name, with an immediate occaſion for them; and no recommendation to any particular houſe, which I could be ſure was a reputable one. Your politeneſs, and the unexpected offer of your friendſhip, encouraged me to commu⯑nicate my diſtreſs to you, and to intreat your aſſiſtance; and I muſt ſtill regret the [...]lucky miſtake that brought me hither inſtead of M [...]s. Egret's. And now, my dear, you have my whole ſtory before you. Have I not been very unfortunate? and am I not in a men dreadful ſituation? But what it chiefly con⯑cerns me to know, does your judgment acquit me of imprudence and folly in this pr [...]pi [...]te flight from my aunt, to whom I owed ſo many benefits, and on whom I depended [...]o [...] ſupport?’

"Approve your flight!" cried miſs Woodby; ‘Yes certainly, child: who would not fly from a bigot, a prieſt, and an old hideous [169] lover? I proteſt I would in your caſe have done the ſame thing.’ ‘Well, that is ſome comfort,’ replied miſs Courteney; ‘but every body will not think as you do; and to a mind of any delicacy, ſ [...] nothing is ſo ſhocking as to have a reputation to defend; and the ſtep I have taken will no doubt expoſe me to many unfavourable cenſures.’

"And do you imagine," ſaid miſs Woodby,

purſued the volatile miſs Wood⯑by, aſſuming a ſprightly air, ‘how do you in⯑tend to diſpoſe of yourſelf to-day; it is late: I muſt go home to dreſs.’

[170]"Diſpoſe of myſelf," repeated miſs Courte⯑ney, ‘even in this ſolitary chamber; for am determined, ſince I muſt ſtay here a day or two longer, to be as little with my landlady a [...] poſſible.’

Miſs Woodby then fluttered down ſtairs, fol⯑lowed by her fair friend, who took that oppor⯑tunity to tell Mrs. Eccles, that ſhe ſhould not leave her ſo ſuddenly as ſhe had imagined, which was very agreeable news to the millenor; who had no other objection to her beautiful lodger, but her extreme reſerve, which did not at all ſuit her purpoſes.

CHAP. VIII.

MISS Courteney, after having traverſed her chamber ſeveral times in great reſt⯑leſſneſs of mind, at length reſolved to take a hackney coach and drive to Mr. Bale's, ſuppoſing ſhe ſhould know from his clerks or ſervants the exact time when he was expected home; at leaſt they could give her a direction where to write to him, and it would be ſome comfort to acquaint him with her ſituation, and have his advice.

[171]She had no ſooner formed this deſign than ſhe haſtened to put it in execution; and having made a ſlight alteration in her dreſs, ſhe went down to Mrs. Eccles, and deſired her to ſend her maid for a coach, telling her ſhe was obliged to go into the city upon buſineſs, and deſired her not to wait for her at dinner. Mrs. Eccles inſiſted upon waiting till four o'clock at leaſt, and at⯑tended her to the door, leſs out of complaiſance than to hear where ſhe ordered the coachman to drive; for the enquietude, irreſolution, and penſiveneſs, which ſhe diſcovered in her fair lodger, extremely heightened her curioſity to know her affairs.

Henrietta, though ſhe did not ſuſpect the motive of her officiouſneſs, yet not thinking it proper to let her know where ſhe was going, only bid the coachman drive to St. Paul's church⯑yard, and when there, ſhe gave him a fuller di⯑rection. Alas! ſighed ſhe, when the coach ſtopped before the great gates of her guardian's houſe, were the hoſpitable maſter of this man⯑ſion at home, here ſhould I find a ſecure aſy⯑lum.

As ſoon as a ſervant appeared, ſhe aſked if Mr. Bale was at home, that ſhe might with greater propriety introduce her farther enquiries; but was moſt agreeably ſurpriſed to hear him an⯑ſwer [172] her in the affirmative, while he opened the coach-door: however, ſhe ordered the coach⯑man to wait, and then followed the ſervant, who introduced her into a large parlour, and retired to acquaint his maſter with her being there.

Immediately a young gentleman, of an en⯑gaging appearance, entered the room, and de⯑ſired to know her commands. Henrietta ſee⯑ing, inſtead of her guardian, a young man whom ſhe was quite a ſtranger to, bluſhed at firſt, [...] a more painful ſenſe of her diſappointment ſoon ſpread a paleneſs over her fair face.

"Is not Mr. Bale at home, ſir?" ſaid ſhe, in an accent that ſhewed her concern, ‘my buſineſs was with him?’

"My father, madam," ſaid the young gen⯑tleman, ‘is in Holland, from whence I c [...]me myſelf but lately; he has affairs to ſettle there which will detain him three or four weeks. But cannot I ſerve you, madam,’ added he; his voice becoming inſenſibly ſofter while he gazed on a form which it was not poſſible to be⯑hold without ſome ſenſibility. ‘Pray let me know, it will give me great pleaſure if I can be in the leaſt degree uſeful to you.’

"I ſhall be obliged to you, ſir," replied miſs Courteney, ‘if you will forward a letter from [173] me to Mr. Bale. It is a great unhappineſs to me that he is abroad at this time: he is my guardian, and at preſent I have need of his advice and aſſiſtance.’

"Pardon me, madam," ſaid young Mr. Bale, "is not your name Courteney." "It is ſir," replied ſhe.

"Dear miſs," ſaid he, looking on her with a tender ſympathy; ‘I wiſh my father was at home, ſince you wiſh ſo—And yet, perhaps, all parents are alike,’ added he, after a pauſe and ſighing, ‘they are too apt to imagine that happineſs conſiſts in riches. But are you in a place of ſafety, miſs— Are you ſure you are in no danger of being diſcovered? I wiſh it was in my power to offer you an aſy⯑lum—but—’

"Bleſs me, ſir! interrupted Henrietta, in great aſtoniſhment, ‘you ſeem to be perfectly well acquainted with my ſituation.’

"Yes, madam," ſaid Mr. Bale, ‘I know ſomething of your affairs, and from my ſoul I approve of your courage and reſolution. A gentleman, named Danvers, was here yeſter⯑day to enquire for you; your aunt's chaplain, is he not?’

"Yes, ſir," replied miſs Courteney, ‘and my perſecutor— but what did he ſay? I [174] ſuppoſe he repreſented me in ſtrange co⯑lours.’

"You need only to be ſeen, madam," ſaid Mr. Bale, ‘to undeceive the moſt prejudiced: yet what he ſaid was not diſadvantageous to you, unleſs,’ added he, with a ſoft ſmile, "you think it a fault to have a tender heart."

"Ah! the wretch," interrupted miſs Cour⯑teney, not able to contain her indignation; ‘I ſee he has been propagating falſhoods inju⯑rious to my reputation; after having poiſoned the mind of my aunt with ſuſpicions that were the cauſe of my loſing her affection, he is en⯑deavouring to deprive me of every friend I have in the world— But this, ſir, is the plain truth: he ſuggeſted, as I have no reaſon to doubt, a prepoſterous match for me to my aunt; I rejected it; he found means to per⯑ſuade my aunt, that I liſtened privately to the addreſſes of ſome man who was an improper match for me. My aunt, in order to prevent my ruin, as ſhe ſuppoſed, inſiſted upon my ac⯑cepting the huſband ſhe had choſen for me; and, upon my obſtinate refuſal, was prevailed upon by her chaplain to reſolve to confine me in a nunnery abroad. I had intelligence of this deſign, and I ſecretly left my aunt's houſe, to prevent her executing it; but I [175] am ſo far from having any ſecret engage⯑ment, that if I could be ſure my aunt would not purſue her ſcheme of entrapping me in a convent, I would inſtantly return and bind myſelf by the moſt ſolemn oaths never to marry any one whom ſhe does not approve.’

"You ſee, ſir," proceeded miſs Courteney, ‘what need I have of your father's aſſiſtance; he is my only friend and protector; through his mediation I might expect to be reſtored to the good opinion of my aunt.’

"Well, madam," ſaid Mr. Bale, ‘if you will write to him, I will take care of your letter; and if it be ready to-morrow, I will attend you myſelf for it; I hope you have no objection to my knowing where you are: in my father's abſence I ſhall be proud to act as your guardian; though he has had the hap⯑pineſs of knowing you longer, yet his con⯑cern for your intereſt cannot be greater than mine. Shall I wait on you to-morrow morn⯑ing, miſs?’ added he. Henrietta, by his manner of urging this requeſt, and his fre⯑quently caſting his eye towards the door, as if afraid of ſome interruption, concluding that ſhe detained him from buſineſs of more im⯑portance, roſe up immediately, and, giving him a direction to her lodgings by the name [176] of Benſon, told him, ſhe would have her letter ready; but aſked if it would not come ſafe in⯑cloſed to him by the penny-poſt, being unwil⯑ling, ſhe ſaid, to give him the trouble of coming for it.

"I beg, madam," ſaid he, as he took her hand to lead her to the coach, ‘that you will believe I can have no greater pleaſure than that of ſerving you. It is neceſſary that I ſhould have an opportunity of talking to you at leiſure, that I may know how I can be far⯑ther uſeful to you.’

Having helped her into the coach, be bowed low, and retired haſtily, with ſuch an expreſſion of tender concern on his countenance as any woman, leſs free from vanity than miſs Courte⯑ney, would not have failed to obſerve; but ſhe making no other reflections on his behaviour, than that he was more polite than perſons uſually are who are bred up to buſineſs, congratulated herſelf on having ſound a friend, through whom ſhe could ſecurely correſpond with her guardian, and receive his advice, ſo that ſhe might now conſider herſelf as being under his immediate care and direction, though abſent; a circum⯑ſtance that greatly alleviated her uneaſineſs.

Mrs. Eccles, who had waited dinner for her longer than had been agreed on, expreſſed great [177] pleaſure at ſeeing her look ſo chearful. ‘To be ſure (ſaid ſhe) you have heard ſome unex⯑pected good news, I am heartily glad of it— Well, now I hope you will have more ſpirits.’ Henrietta ſmiled, but made no anſwer; for an ingenuous mind can only evade indiſcreet curio⯑ſity by ſilence.

The cloth was ſcarce removed, when the young lord, who had now taken poſſeſſion of his apartment in Mrs. Eccles's houſe, came into the parlour. Henrietta immediately roſe up to re⯑tire to her own chamber, when he ſtarting back, and ſtanding at the door as if to obſtruct her paſſage, ‘I came (ſaid he) Mrs. Eccles, to beg you would make me a diſh of coffee; but ſince my preſence drives this young lady away, I will go up ſtairs again.’

"Oh, by no means, my lord," ſaid Mrs. Eccles, ‘I am ſure miſs Benſon will not let you think ſo. You are not going, miſs, are you?’ added ſhe, turning to Henrietta.

"I have letters to write," ſaid the young lady, "that will take me up the whole afternoon."

"Well," ſaid my lord, ‘I will drink no coffee then; for unleſs you ſtay, miſs, I ſhall be perſuaded that my coming has driven you away. Let me intreat you,’ purſued he, entering and leading her to a chair, ‘to allow [178] me the pleaſure of drinking a diſh of coffee with you; you will have time enough after⯑wards to write your letters.’

Miſs Courteney, who was willing to avoid the appearance of ſingularity, ſat down again, tho' with ſome reluctance, telling his lordſhip that ſhe would not be the means of diſappointing him of his coffee; but that ſhe muſt inſiſt upon be⯑ing permitted to withdraw in half an hour, hav⯑ing buſineſs of conſequence upon her hands.

The young nobleman gave little attention to what ſhe ſaid, but gazed on her with an ear⯑neſtneſs that threw her into ſome confuſion. The milliner going out of the room to give or⯑ders about the coffee, he began in moſt vehe⯑ment language to declare a paſſion for her, and called in the aſſiſtance of poetry, to expreſs his admiration of her charms.

Henrietta, who in her own character would have treated this manner of addreſs with ridicule and contempt, thought it became her, in her preſent circumſtances, to reſent it ſeriouſly; therefore riſing, with ſome ſigns of indignation, ſhe told him, that ſince his lordſhip thought proper to entertain her with ſuch kind of diſ⯑courſe, ſhe would immediately retire. My lord, who ſaw ſhe was angry in good earneſt, was exceſſively afraid of her leaving him; there⯑fore [179] taking her hand, which he forcibly held, till he had ſealed a vow upon it with his lips, that he would not ſay another word to offend her, he brought her back to her ſeat, which, upon ſee⯑ing Mrs. Eccles enter, ſhe reſumed.

The converſation then took another turn; but Henrietta was too much chagrined to mix in it with any degree of chearfulneſs: beſides, the party ſeemed to her to be but ill aſſorted, a no⯑bleman, a milliner, and a young woman in ob⯑ſcure circumſtances. Her delicacy was ſhocked, and all the politeneſs ſhe was miſtreſs of was ſcarce ſufficient to hinder her from ſhewing how much ſhe was diſpleaſed with herſelf and her company.

As ſoon as the tea-equipage was removed, ſhe looked at her watch; and ſeeming apprehenſive that ſhe ſhould not have time enough to write her letters, ſhe withdrew with ſuch precipitation, that they had no opportunity to ſolicit her longer ſtay.

"This is a ſtrange girl," ſaid the young lord, throwing himſelf into his chair, from whence he had riſen to return the haſty compliment ſhe made at her departure, ‘but divinely handſome; who can ſhe be? I vow to Gad I believe I ſhall be in love with her in earneſt: have you made no diſcovery yet, Mrs. Eccles,’ pur⯑ſued [180] he; ‘there is certainly ſome myſtery in the caſe, and a love-myſtery it muſt be; for women are not even faithful to their own ſe⯑crets, unleſs an amour is the buſineſs, and then they are impenetrable.’

"Your lordſhip may be ſure," ſaid Mrs. Ec⯑cles, ‘that I have ſpared no pains to diſcover who ſhe is; but ſhe is exceſſively reſerved, and talks ſo little, that there is no probability of intrapping her: yet, I think there is one way, by which your curioſity may be ſatisfied. Your lordſhip has ſeen a gay ſlighty lady with her, of whom ſhe is very fond.’

"What, that ugly creature!" ſaid my lord, ‘that faſtened upon me in your ſhop; do you mean her? is miſs Benſon fond of that thing?’

"Oh! very fond," replied Mrs. Eccles. ‘They were ſhut up together four hours thi [...] very morning.’

"Then depend upon it ſhe is the confident," ſaid his lordſhip. ‘Oh! I gueſs your ſcheme, you would have me bribe her.’

"Bribe her, my lord," repeated Mrs. Ec⯑cles; ‘ſhe ſeems to be a woman of [...]me faſhion. I dare ſay you would affront her extremely, by offering her a bribe.’

"I am very ſure," interrupted his lordſhip, ‘that ſhe will not be able to reſiſt the bribe I ſhall [181] offer her: I will flatter her, my dear Mrs. Ec⯑cles, till I not only become maſter of all her friend's ſecrets, but even her own; but how ſhall I get an opportunity of talking to her alone?’

"I will engage," ſaid Mrs. Eccles, ‘that it will not be long before ſhe is here again; and, if your lordſhip ſhould happen to be below when ſhe comes, I fancy you would not find it difficult to detain her a little while from her friend.’

"Well," ſaid my lord, ‘I leave it to you to manage this interview for me: when I know who this miſs Benſon is, I can make my ap⯑proaches accordingly; but when do you ex⯑pect her down ſtairs again?’ ‘Not till ſup⯑per-time,’ ſaid Mrs. Eccles; ‘ſhe is never weary of being alone.’ ‘Ah, that is a bad ſign!’ ſaid he, ‘I doubt I have a rival—Well I will look in upon you at ten o'clock; per⯑haps I may find her with you.’

Mrs. Eccles aſſuring him ſhe would engage her till that time, if poſſible. He went away hum⯑ming an opera-air, but with leſs vacuity of thought than uſual, miſs Benſon being ſo much in his head, that, if he had been accuſtomed to reflexion, he would have concluded ſhe was in his heart alſo, and that he was in love with her in earneſt.

[182]Henrietta in the mean time was employed in writing her letter to Mr. Bale, to whom ſhe gave a faithful account of all that had happened to her, and earneſtly intreated his good offices towards effecting a reconciliation between her aunt and her. The inconveniencies ſhe ſaw her⯑ſelf expoſed to in her preſent ſituation made her ſo deſirous of this happy event, that her letter was almoſt a continued repetition of ſolicitations for that purpoſe. She begged him, in caſe he did not return to England, to write to her aunt, and endeavour to ſoften her, aſſuring him that ſhe pretended to no greater liberty than what an obedient daughter might expect from a parent; being reſolved to obey her will in every thing, provided ſhe might not be compelled to marry the old baronet, nor confined in a nunnery with a view to the change of her religion.

She expreſſed her ſatisfaction in the polite behaviour of his ſon to her, whom ſhe would conſider, ſhe ſaid, as her guardian in his abſence, and would take no ſtep without his advice and concurrence.

She had finiſhed her letter long before the milliner's uſual hour of ſupper; but being re⯑ſolved to go down no more that evening, ſhe ſpread letters and papers upon the table, as if ſhe ſtill continued extremely buſy. Mrs. Eccles, [183] upon entering her chamber to know if ſhe was ready for ſupper, found her with the pen ſtill in her hand; and was a good deal mortified to hear her ſay, That, having dined ſo late, ſhe would not ſup that night, but would finiſh her letters before ſhe went to bed.

Mrs. Eccles did not think proper to preſs her; for her extreme reſerve inſpired her with a kind of awe, that made her cautious of giving her the leaſt diſguſt; and Henrietta taking leave of her at her chamber-door for the night, ſhe went away in great concern for the diſappointment his lordſhip would meet with.

It was indeed a very mortifying diſappointment to him; for his impatience to ſee miſs Courteney had brought him back much ſooner than he had intended, and Mrs. Eccles, when ſhe came down ſtairs, found him already in her parlour. When he heard the young lady's reſolution, not to appear again that night, he took an uncere⯑monious leave of his complaiſant landlady, and joined his company again at White's, wonder⯑ing to find himſelf in ſo ill an humour, on ſo ſlight an occaſion, and that dice and Burgundy were ſcarce ſufficient to call off his thoughts from this coy unknown, whom yet he did not deſpair of gaining.

CHAP. IX.

HEnrietta, upon her coming down next morning to breakfaſt, was informed by Mrs. Eccles, that a gentleman had been en⯑quiring for her that morning; but, hearing ſhe was not up, had left word that he would call again. She did not doubt but it was Mr. Bale, and was a little confuſed that his punctuality ſhould ſo much exceed her's in an affair that immediately concerned her; but the truth was, the young merchant's impatience to ſee her had outſtripped time, and he came much ear⯑lier than ſhe had reaſon to expect him.

She retired immediately after breakfaſt, de⯑ſiring that the gentleman might be ſhown up ſtairs when he came again; for Mrs. Eccles, at her requeſt, had made a ſmall alteration in her apartment, and put her bed in an adjoining cloſet, that ſhe might with more propriety re⯑ceive a viſit in her own room.

She was ſcarce got up ſtairs, when Mr. Bale was introduced: ſhe apologiſed for the trouble he had in calling twice; and delivering him he [...] [185] letter, recommended it to his care with extreme earneſtneſs, aſſuring him, ſhe ſhould be very unhappy till ſhe had an anſwer. She then en⯑quired more particularly concerning the viſit Mr. Danvers had made him, anxious to collect from what he ſaid what impreſſion her flight had made upon her aunt.

"I will not flatter you, miſs," ſaid Mr. Bale. ‘Lady Meadows is extremely enraged— Mr. Danvers mentioned nothing of a deſign to put you into a convent; but owned that your aunt had a very advantageous match in view for you, which you rejected—and—’

"Pray go on, ſir," ſaid Henrietta, obſerving that he heſitated.

"Your aunt will have it," madam, purſued he, ‘that your affections are engaged—I can⯑not believe that a young lady of your good ſenſe would make an improper choice— I ſhould be very glad to be able to convince my father that nothing of this kind is the caſe— Excuſe me, miſs, I am very anxious for your happineſs; it would give me infinite joy to find that your aunt is miſtaken.’

‘My aunt has no reaſon, ſir, for her ſuſpi⯑cions,’ replied Henrietta; ‘but if my affec⯑tions were engaged, why ſhould ſhe think I [186] had made an improper choice?’ "Ah! miſs—" eagerly interrupted Mr. Bale.

"I hope, ſir," ſaid miſs Courteney, gravely▪ ‘you will believe me, when I declare that my aunt's fears are without foundation: it con⯑cerns me greatly that your father ſhould not entertain the ſame idle ſuſpicions; and, were he here, I am ſure I could convince him.’

"Dear miſs," interrupted Mr. Bale, ‘I can⯑not ſuffer you to go on; do not imagine that I am not convinced. I had doubts, but you will excuſe them; my great concern for your happineſs was the cauſe—Rely upon me, I beg you; I will take care my father ſhall not be prejudiced, and till his return I am your guardian.’

Henrietta, upon a little reflection, was more pleaſed than offended at the doubts he ſo can⯑didly acknowledged; in ſo young a man, ſuch plainneſs and ſincerity were far more agreeable than the refinements of compliment and flat⯑tery, and more ſuitable to the cha [...]r in which he deſired to be conſidered, and in which ſhe did conſider him. She thanked him fo [...] a ſolicitude, which ſhe ſaid was ſo advantageous to her; and to ſhew him that ſhe wiſhed to give him all imaginable ſatisfaction with regard to [187] her conduct, ſhe entered into a particular detail of the ſituation ſhe had been in with her aunt, whoſe views with regard to her, ſhe explained: ſhe ſlightly touched upon the character of the chaplain, and imputed to his great influence over her aunt, the raſh and ſevere reſolutions ſhe had taken againſt her.

She was proceeding to juſtify herſelf for hav⯑ing left her aunt's houſe; when Mr. Bale in⯑terrupted her with ſome emotion: ‘every rea⯑ſonable perſon, miſs (ſaid he) that knows your motives for taking this ſtep, will not only hold you excuſed, but will even ap⯑plaud you for not ſacrificing yourſelf to riches.’

"I am ſure," ſaid Henrietta, ‘my aunt would hear reaſon, were it not for that invi⯑dious chaplain, who fills her with ſuſpicions, and animates her reſentment. Oh, that Mr. Bale was come!’

"I hope," ſaid the young merchant, ‘that we ſhall ſee him ſhortly; but in the mean time, miſs, let me know how I can be uſeful to you: do you like your preſent lodgings? are the people ſuch as you approve? Let me know if you have any inclination to remove, and I will endeavour to ſettle you ſome-where that will be agreeable to my father; I ſuppoſe [188] you would have no objection to lodging with an acquaintance of his, and where you will be near him.’

"No, certainly," ſaid miſs Courteney, ‘it would be highly agreeable to me.’ ‘Well, miſs,’ ſaid Mr. Bale, riſing, ‘I will wait on you again in a day or two: but perhaps you have occaſion for money, I have brought ſome with me; pray do not put yourſelf to any inconveniency, but draw for what ſums you have occaſion.’

"The trifle, ſir," ſaid Henrietta, bluſhing, ‘that is in your father's hands, will not admit of my drawing very largely; however, I will venture to take up twenty pounds, becauſe I have occaſion to purchaſe ſome trifling things; for all my cloaths are at my aunt's, and I am in great hopes ſhe will not ſend them after me: that would look indeed,’ ſaid ſhe, ſigh⯑ing, ‘as if I muſt never expect to return a⯑gain; and I am reſolved not to ſend for them, that it may appear I do expect and wiſh it.’

Mr. Bale, upon hearing this, preſſed her to take forty guineas; but ſhe ſaid, twenty would do, having ſome money by her. He then took leave of her, with a promiſe to ſee her again ſoon; and left her greatly pleaſed with his friend⯑ly [189] behaviour, and with the proſpect of being ſoon with perſons leſs obnoxious to her than Mrs. Eccles.

She had ſcarcely depoſited her money in her deſk, when miſs Woodby bolted into the room with her uſual robuſt livelineſs. Indeed her ſpirits were particularly exhilarated that day, having had the dear delight of converſing an whole hour with a beau, who ſaid the civileſt things to her imaginable; a piece of good for⯑tune ſhe did not often meet with, and for which, though her vanity did not ſuffer her to find it out, ſhe was wholly indebted to her fair friend, the beau being no other than the young lord who lodged in the houſe, with whom ſhe had been engaged in converſation great part of the time that Mr. Bale was with miſs Courteney. And if the reader is curious to know what paſſed be⯑tween them, he will be fully informed in the next chapter.

CHAP. X.

MR. Bale had been about half an hour with miſs Courteney, when miſs Woodby came to pay her a morning viſit. As ſoon as Mrs. Eccles ſaw a chair ſet her down at the door, ſhe flew up ſtairs to acquaint her noble lodger with her arrival; he inſtantly followed her down, and, meeting miſs Woodby at the bottom of the ſtairs, affected a joyful ſurpriſe at his good fortune in ſeeing her ſo unexpectedly again.

"The lady you are going to viſit," ſaid he, ‘is engaged with company, I believe; but I am reſolved you ſhall not go away,’ purſued he, taking her hand and leading her into the parlour, ‘I was ſo charmed with your conver⯑ſation the firſt time I ſaw you, that it is not probable I will loſe this opportunity of renew⯑ing our acquaintance.’

"Oh! your lordſhip is very obliging," ſaid miſs Woodby, ſuffering herſelf to be led into the parlour, while her tranſport at finding her⯑ſelf [191] treated with ſo much gallantry, and her paſſionate deſire of pleaſing, threw her into ſuch ridiculous affectation, that every limb and feature was diſtorted. Compliment, to which ſhe was very little uſed, acted like ſtrong li⯑quors upon a weak head, ſhe became ſo intoxi⯑cated that ſhe hardly knew what ſhe did, which, joined to a natural aukwardneſs, pro⯑duced the moſt abſurd blunders in her beha⯑viour; ſo that, endeavouring to trip with a lively motion to her ſeat, ſhe overturned a light mahogany table that was in her way, and heard the craſh of the china that was on it with very little emotion: the pleaſure of ſhewing herſelf to the greateſt advantage, abſolutely engroſſing her; and ſo unſeaſonably did ſhe return his lord⯑ſhip's polite bow, when he had ſeated her in her chair, that their foreheads ſtruck againſt each o⯑ther with a force like the concuſſion of two rocks; but this accident, no more than the former, diſ⯑turbed miſs Woodby's enjoyment of her preſent happineſs; and, wholly inſenſible to the pain of her forehead, ſhe immediately entered into converſation with his lordſhip, aſking him, with the livelieſt air imaginable, if he had been at Ranelagh laſt night; never once making the leaſt reflection upon what he had told her of her friend's being engaged with company, which, [192] as ſhe knew her ſituation, might well have raiſed her curioſity.

The beau told her, he was not there; ‘but you and miſs Benſon were, I ſuppoſe,’ added he.

‘Now your lordſhip mentions miſs Ben⯑ſon,’ ſaid ſhe (without anſwering his queſtion) ‘pray tell me how you like her; is ſhe not very handſome?’

"Yes," replied my lord, ‘ſhe is handſome; but,’ added he, looking full at her, ‘ſhe wants a certain lady's agreeable vivacity.’

"Oh! your ſervant, my lord," ſaid miſs Woodby, making the application immediately; ‘but really, as your lordſhip obſerves, ſhe wants vivacity; there is ſomething heavy and lumpiſh in her.’

"Yet ſhe is genteel," ſaid my lord. ‘Oh! extremely genteel,’ cried miſs Woodby; ‘but does not your lordſhip think ſhe is rather too tall? being ſo ſlender as ſhe is, does not that heighth give her a certain aukwardneſs?— But I really think ſhe has one of the fineſt complexions in the world!’

"Has ſhe not rather too much bloom," ſaid my lord. "Why, yes," replied miſs Woodby, ‘I think her complexion wants delicacy; but [193] no objection can be made to her eyes, you muſt own, except that they are rather too large, and roll about heavily.’

"Upon the whole," ſaid my lord, ‘miſs Benſon is tolerable; but I perceive you are extremely fond of her by your partiality.’

"Oh, my lord," ſaid miſs Woodby, ‘we are the greateſt friends in the world; I con⯑ceived a violent friendſhip for her the firſt mo⯑ment I ſaw her— You cannot imagine how ardent my friendſhips are.’

"That is bad news for your lover," ſaid my lord; ‘for, love and friendſhip (the wiſe ſay) exclude each other; but I hope miſs Ben⯑ſon makes a proper return to ſo much affec⯑tion.’

‘Oh! we are united in the ſtrongeſt bands of friendſhip,’ ſaid miſs Woodby; ‘the dear creature has not a thought that ſhe conceals from me: and though I have not been ac⯑quainted with her a week, ſhe has intruſted me with all her affairs.’

"Indeed!" ſaid my lord, ‘not acquainted a week, and ſo communicative: are you ſure, my dear miſs Woodby, that this young lady is not a little ſilly.’

[194]"I cannot ſay," replied miſs Woodby, ‘that her underſtanding is the beſt in the world; but ſhe has a very good heart.’

"Your own is very good, I do not doubt," ſaid my lord, ‘which leads you to make ſo fa⯑vourable a judgment of another's—However, as ſhe has laid open her affairs to you, you may, from the conduct ſhe has avowed, col⯑lect your opinion of her.’

"Very true," ſaid miſs Woodby; ‘and I do aſſure your lordſhip, that I cannot help ap⯑proving of her conduct, becauſe her motives were certainly juſt: though the ill-judging world may perhaps condemn her for running away from her aunt; and, from her hiding herſelf in a lodging, aſſuming another name, and ſuch little circumſtances, may take occa⯑ſion to cenſure her, yet I am perſuaded in my own mind that ſhe is blameleſs.’

"Benſon is not her name then," ſaid my lord, affecting great indifference. ‘Oh, no my lord,’ ſaid miſs Woodby, ‘her name i [...] Courteney.— But bleſs me— what have [...] done! I hope, my lord, you will he ſecret I did not intend to tell your lordſhip mi [...] Benſon's true name— I would not for th [...] world violate that friendſhip I have vow [...] to her.’

[195]"Depend upon it, madam;" ſaid my lord, ‘I will be ſecret as the grave. It is of no con⯑ſequence to me to know her name; I ſhall never think of it again— But to be ſure the poor girl is to be pitied— And ſo ſhe ran away from her aunt; who is her aunt, pray?’

"Her aunt's name is Meadows," ſaid miſs Woodby, ‘lady Meadows; do you know her?’

"Not I," ſaid my lord, throwing himſelf into a careleſs poſture, and humming an air as if his attention was wholly diſengaged; when ſuddenly turning again to miſs Woodby with a ſmile—

‘Why (ſaid he) ſhould not you and I be as good friends as miſs Benſon and you are; our acquaintance is not of a much ſhorter date, and perhaps commenced nearly in the ſame manner?’

"I proteſt," ſaid miſs Woodby, ‘and ſo it did; for I firſt ſaw your lordſhip in Mrs. Ec⯑cles's ſhop, and I happened to meet miſs Benſon in a ſtage-coach about four days ago.’

"And there your acquaintance began?" ſaid my lord; ‘you have improved it well ſince, if ſhe has really been ingenuous enough to let [196] you into the true ſtate of her affairs. I ſup⯑poſe there is a lover in the caſe.’

"A lover there certainly is," ſaid miſs Woodby; ‘but he was of her aunt's chuſing; and it is from this lover ſhe fled.’

"O brave girl!" ſaid my lord; ‘but is ſhe not fled to a lover of her own chuſing?’ "No, I believe not," ſaid miſs Woodby.

"Well," ſaid my lord, ‘I fancy ſhe has de⯑ceived you, and that the gentleman who is with her now is her lover; he is a plain ſort of man, Mrs. Eccles ſays, and looks like a merchant.’

"Oh!" ſaid miſs Woodby, ‘it is Mr. Bale her guardian, I ſuppoſe.’ ‘But this is a young man,’ ſaid my lord." ‘Then per⯑haps it is her brother,’ ſaid miſs Woodby, ‘who was abroad with a nobleman, and is now returned.’

"I think I hear him coming down ſtairs," ſaid my lord, ‘I have a mind to ſee him, as he goes out.’ Saying this, he bowed and ran into the ſhop, leaving miſs Woodby a little confuſed at his abrupt departure; and now, for the firſt time, ſhe reflected that ſhe had been indiſcreet, and revealed too much of her friend's ſituation: but being incapable of taking any great intereſt in the concerns of another, thi [...]

[217]Mr. Bale aſked her pardon for not having conſulted her before on that ſubject; but ſaid, that by ſtill continuing the name of Benſon, ſhe would be more ſecure from the ſearch her aunt might make for her.

Alas! ſir," ſaid miſs Courteney, ‘I am afraid my aunt is too much offended to be at any pains to find me out—I am more ap⯑prehenſive of the contrivances of Mr. Dan⯑vers; he no doubt has ſtrong reaſons for putting her upon ſuch harſh meaſures. While I was alone and unprotected, I thought it neceſſary to conceal myſelf, ſince it was not impoſſible but I might have been forced away; but I am ſure no ſuch attempt will be made, when it is known that I am under my guar⯑dian's protection. I think therefore this gen⯑tlewoman ought to be acquainted with my name. I would avoid as much as poſſible the appearance of myſtery. I ſhall never recol⯑lect, without pain, the ſad neceſſity that has reduced me to it.’

"It will not be prudent," ſaid Mr. Bale, ‘to alter our meaſures now: I have called you miſs Benſon; the diſcovery of your true name will come with more propriety from my father, when he has accommodated matters between your aunt and you: we may expect a letter [218] from him in a day or two, in which he will probably fix the time of his return. In the mean while I hope you will find yourſelf agreeably ſituated here— I have agreed for your board and lodging.’

"At a moderate price, I hope," ſaid miſs Courteney, ‘my circumſtances do not entitle me to great expence.’ ‘I have taken care of that,’ ſaid Mr. Bale. Mrs. Willis coming in that moment, he recommended miſs Cour⯑teney to her care, promiſing, when he heard from his father, to come immediately with the news. He then took his leave, and Mrs. Willis conducted her fair lodger to another parlour, where the cloth was laid for dinner, and intro⯑duced two pretty children to her, a boy and a girl, with whom the young lady was extremely pleaſed.

There was in the countenance of this woman ſo much ſweetneſs and complacency, and ſuch an unaffected politeneſs in her behaviour, that Henrietta found herſelf inſenſibly diſpoſed to like her, and was pleaſed to hear her [...]ll naturally into an account of herſelf with a frankneſs and ſimplicity that denoted the goodneſs of her heart▪

From what ſhe ſaid, miſs Courteney col⯑lected that ſhe had made a marriage of choic [...] rather than of prudence, and that induſtry ha [...] [219] ſupplied the place of fortune: She found ſhe was under great obligations to the elder Mr. Bale, who had ſettled her huſband in an advantageous way at Leghorn, where he acted as his factor, and had enabled her to furniſh that large houſe, in a very genteel manner, for the reception of ſuch merchants as came from abroad, and were by him recommended to lodge with her. Her extreme tenderneſs for her huſband, which had hurried her to Leghorn upon hearing that he was ill, that ſhe might have the ſatisfaction of attending him herſelf, and her anxiety for her children, which brought her back as ſoon as he was recovered, that ſhe might re-aſſume her care of them, were qualities which won her the eſteem of miſs Courteney. She marked with what becoming reſerve ſhe ſlightly touched upon her family and connections, which were very genteel, and by which Henrietta accounted for the eaſy politeneſs of her manners and beha⯑viour, ſo ſeldom found in perſons of her rank.

The young lady then turned the diſcourſe upon her guardian's ſon, whoſe character ſhe was deſirous of being acquainted with. Mrs. Willis told her, that he was a ſober diligent young man, and though the heir of immenſe riches, yet applied himſelf to buſineſs with as much induſtry as if he had had his fortune to [220] make: that he had for ſeveral years tranſacted his father's buſineſs in Holland, from whence he was but lately returned; and that he traded largely for himſelf.

‘Before I went to Leghorn (added ſhe) there was ſome talk of his being to be married to the daughter of a very rich citizen; but ſince my return, which was about a week ago, I have heard nothing of it, not having ſeen Mr. Bale till the day that he came to tell me I ſhould be ſo happy as to have you, madam, for my lodger.’

Miſs Courteney having paſſed this day more agreeably than ſhe had done any ſince ſhe had left her aunt, was at night conducted by Mrs. Willis to a genteel apartment, conſiſting of a bed-chamber and dreſſing-room. She diſmiſſed the maid whom Mrs. Willis ordered to attend and undreſs her; and being greatly fatigued for want of reſt the preceding night, loſt all [...]er cares, her anxieties, and reſentments, in the ſweet oblivion of a calm and uninterrupted ſleep.

CHAP. XIII.

HEnrietta, though an early riſer, and though ſhe roſe next morning earlier than uſual, yet found, upon her going down, Mrs. Willis had waited breakfaſt for her ſome time.

As ſoon as the tea-equipage was removed, ſhe retired to leave Mrs. Willis at liberty to go about her domeſtick affairs; and, when alone, was again aſſaulted with all thoſe cruel reflec⯑tions which had almoſt inceſſantly filled her mind ſince her flight from her aunt. Among theſe, miſs Woodby's treachery ſuggeſted none of the leaſt painful: ſhe was aſhamed of her credulity, of her ill-placed confidence; indigna⯑tion for the ſhocking treatment ſhe had met with from her ſucceeded. She was upon the point of ſitting down to write to her, and to expreſs the deepeſt reſentment of her malice and trea⯑chery; when, recollecting the extreme levity of that young woman's temper, her ridiculous affectation, her folly, and inſenſibility, ſhe thought it would ill become her to make ſerious remonſtrances to one who only merited con⯑tempt; [222] that by taking no further notice of her, that contempt would be beſt expreſſed, and her own conſciouſneſs of the part ſhe had acted would account for it.

While ſhe was thus ruminating, Mrs. Willis's maid introduced two porters bringing in a large trunk to her apartment. They delivered her the key ſealed up, and a letter from Mr. Bale, in which he informed her, he would wait on her that afternoon.

She opened the trunk trembling; it contained all her cloaths, linen, and all the trinkets her aunt had given her. She ſearched eagerly in it to ſee if there was a letter for her; but finding none, ſhe threw herſelf into a chair, and burſt into a flood of tears.

While her aunt retained her cloaths, ſhe had formed a feeble hope that ſhe was anxious for her return, and would facilitate it, by aſſuring Mr. Bale, that ſhe would no more preſs her to the hated marriage, nor think of con [...]ining her in a convent; but now what could ſhe conclude, but that ſhe had abandoned her for ever, and that a reconciliation was not to be expected. The moſt gloomy proſpects offered themſelves to her view, poverty, dependence, neglect; but what was worſe than all, the loſs perhaps of reputation. How ſhould ſhe be able to excuſe [223] herſelf to the world for her late action? the world which judges actions only by their ſucceſs: and when it beheld her unhappy and reduced to indigence, would not fail to conclude her guilty.

In theſe melancholy apprehenſions did ſhe wear away the hours till ſummoned to dinner by Mrs. Willis, who, with tender concern, per⯑ceived that ſhe was afflicted, but would not diſ⯑cover that ſhe perceived it; and uſed her utmoſt endeavours to amuſe her, yet without any appa⯑rent ſolicitude, leſt it ſhould alarm her ſenſi⯑bility with a fear that her uneaſineſs was ob⯑ſerved.

Mr. Bale came according to his promiſe in the afternoon: his arrival gave almoſt as much ſa⯑tisfaction to Mrs. Willis, as to her fair anxious lodger, from a hope that it would produce ſome comfort to her. The young merchant inſtantly diſcovered that Henrietta had been weeping; and, as ſoon as Mrs. Willis withdrew, he ten⯑derly approached her, and taking her hand, aſked her if any thing new had happened to give her diſturbance? Henrietta replied with a haſty queſtion, ‘Have you any meſſage for me from my aunt, ſir?’

"I cannot ſay I have a meſſage for you, miſs," anſwered Mr. Bale; ‘your aunt has indeed [224] wrote to me.’ "May I not ſee her letter?" aſked miſs Courteney again, eagerly. ‘To be ſure,’ ſaid he, taking it out of his pocket, and preſenting it to her, ‘I wiſh it was con⯑ceived in more favourable terms.’ Miſs Cour⯑tency read it trembling, and found it as fol⯑lows:

Henrietta returned the letter to Mr. Bale with a ſigh. ‘I have indeed (ſaid ſhe) irrecoverably loſt her affection: but, ſir, it is fit my aunt ſhould know where I am, and that I ſolicited your protection as ſoon as I could. This will [225] preſerve me from ſome of thoſe unfavourable ſuſpicions which ſhe mentions ſo ſeverely. I will write to her inſtantly.’

"Oh! no, by no means," ſaid Mr. Bale, ‘I think it will be beſt for me to make a viſit to lady Meadows, and tell her, that you are under my care, and that I have placed you here.’

"And will you take the trouble to go to Windſor, ſir," ſaid miſs Courtency, extremely delighted with this expedient. ‘I would go any where,’ ſaid Mr. Bale, ‘to ſerve you. Pray make yourſelf eaſy.’

"I ſhall be eaſier," ſaid miſs Courteney, ‘when my aunt knows that this ſcandalous run⯑away is under proper protection, and is ac⯑countable for all her actions to your father. Perhaps ſhe may relent when ſhe is convinced I am not ſo indiſcreet as ſhe imagined, and that I had no other motive for leaving her but the fear of being confined in a convent. If you find my aunt abſolutely reſolved not to be re⯑conciled to me, I muſt then conſider how to diſpoſe of myſelf in a way more ſuitable to my circumſtances.’

"Remember, miſs," ſaid Mr. Bale, with ſome emotion, ‘that you are under my care— I hope you will take no reſolutions without acquaint⯑ing me.’ "No, certainly," replied Hen⯑rietta— ‘[226]but, ſir, I have no fortune; I am lodged, attended, and treated, as if I had a very conſiderable one. This expence I ſhall not be willing to ſupport a great while longer, it will break in too much upon that trifling ſum, which was put into your father's hands, for my brother's uſe as well as mine. Heaven knows (ſaid ſhe, ſighing) whether he is alive; if he is, he will probably need it; if he is not, it will go but a very little way in ſupporting me in the manner in which I now live.’

While Henrietta was ſpeaking in this manner, Mr. Bale ſeemed ready to interrupt her ſeveral times, but checked himſelf as if upon better re⯑collection; when ſhe was ſilent, he walked about the room, muſing; then ſuddenly turning to⯑wards her,

‘Theſe conſiderations, miſs (ſaid he) ought at leaſt to be poſtponed till my father's return, and I think you may rely upon his prudence: he will certainly take care that your expences ſhall not exceed your income; in placing you here, I have done what I thought would be agreeable to him.’

Henrietta, obſerving that he was in ſome con⯑fuſion, was concerned that ſhe had ſpoke ſo freely, being apprehenſive that he underſtood what ſhe had ſaid as a diſtruſt of his prudence. She there⯑fore [227] told him, that if he found her aunt impla⯑cable, ſhe would be extremely well ſatisfied to continue with Mrs. Willis as long as Mr. Bale ſhould think it neceſſary.

This aſſurance ſatisfied the young merchant, who left her with a promiſe to ſee lady Meadows the next day, and to wait on her as ſoon as poſ⯑ſible, with an account of the ſucceſs of his viſit.

She paſſed this interval in a ſtate of anxiety and ſuſpence, that doubled every hour. As ſoon as ſhe ſaw Mr. Bale again, ſhe endeavoured to read in his countenance, before he ſpoke, the news he had brought her.

"Well, miſs (ſaid he) I have ſeen your aunt." He pauſed; and Henrietta, in a ſaltering accent, begged him to tell her in one word, whether he had ſucceeded or not?

‘Indeed I have not (ſaid he) lady Meadows ſeems reſolved never to forgive you for running away from her; but don't deſpair, my father may have more weight with her.’ ‘It is at leaſt ſome comfort (ſaid ſhe) that ſhe knows I am under your protection.’ ‘I have a letter from my father,’ ſaid Mr. Bale, ‘he has got the gout in his right hand; he dic⯑tated it to one of his clerks, and therefore ſpeaks with reſerve of you. He deſires me to tell you, that he hopes to be in London in [228] three weeks at fartheſt, when he will uſe his utmoſt endeavours to reconcile you to your aunt; and, in the mean time, recommends you moſt affectionately to my care.’

This account of her guardian's kind concern for her, gave ſome relief to the depreſſed ſpirits of miſs Courteney, who, although ſhe had not flattered herſelf with any hope from the young merchant's mediation with her aunt, was as much ſhocked at the confirmation of her continued diſpleaſure, as if ſhe had not expected it. How⯑ever, ſhe expreſſed a grateful ſenſe of his ſer⯑vices, and diſpoſed herſelf to wait with patience for the arrival of Mr. Bale, who alone could d [...] ⯑termine her deſtiny.

CHAP. XIV.

HEnrietta had been about a fortnight in the houſe of Mrs. Willis, whoſe good ſenſe and polite behaviour had entirely won her eſteem, when, on a ſudden, ſhe became reſerv⯑ed and thoughtful, and often failed in thoſe little attentions which mark reſpect, and an extreme willingneſs to oblige. She, who had avoided the leaſt appearance of curioſity to know more of her affairs than what ſhe pleaſed to diſcloſe, now aſked queſtions with an inquiſitive air, and ſeemed to ſeek for occaſions of collecting a fuller knowledge of her from her converſation.

Henrietta had inſiſted upon her being made acquainted with her true name and circum⯑ſtances, from the time that Mr. Bale had ac⯑knowledged to her aunt that ſhe was under his care, which had produced no other alteration in Mrs. Willis than rather an increaſe of reſpect towards her, which ſhe conceived due to her birth.

The young lady, whoſe extreme ſenſibility was not the leaſt of her misfortunes, obſerved her [230] increaſing coldneſs, and ſuffered great uneaſi⯑neſs. She had willingly indulged a tenderneſs and eſteem for her; and was concerned to find from her altered behaviour, that either ſhe had failed in her endeavours to acquire the friendſhip of Mrs. Willis, or that the woman whom ſhe had conceived ſo good an opinion of, was in reality not deſerving of hers.

However, ſhe was determined not to let Mr. Bale perceive that ſhe was diſſatisfied with her behaviour; and ſhe continued to live with her in the ſame eaſy manner as formerly, notwithſtanding the coldneſs and conſtraint with which ſhe was now treated.

Mr. Bale ſcarce ever failed to call and ſee her once a day; but one day he returned about an hour after he had been with her, and told her he had juſt received letters from his father, in which he acquainted him that Mrs. Willis would in a few days have ſeveral foreign merchants in her houſe, whom he had recommended to lodge with her; and that, his ſtay in Holland being protracted for ſome time longer, he thought it would not be proper for miſs Courteney to reſide with Mrs. Willis till his return, as her houſe would be full of men.

"My father," added Mr. Bale, ‘deſires me to aſk you, miſs, whether you have any objection [231] to go into the country for a few weeks. He has a diſtant relation, a widow, who lives at Hampſtead, with whom he ſays he will be glad to find you at his return; he begs you will excuſe his not writing to you, having the gout ſtill in his hand, and deſires me to aſſure you of his tendereſt concern for your welfare.’

A week before, Henrietta would have thought it a misfortune to have left Mrs. Willis to go into any other lodging; but ſhe was ſo piqued by her behaviour, that ſhe heard this news without any uneaſineſs, and told Mr. Bale ſhe would implicitly follow her guardian's direc⯑tions.

He ſaid he would conduct her to his couſin's himſelf; and took leave of her, after he had de⯑ſired her to be ready for her little journey the next day.

Mrs. Willis came up to her apartment ſoon after Mr. Bale went away. ‘I hear I am ſoon to loſe you, miſs,’ ſaid ſhe, entering. "Yes," replied miſs Courteney cooly, ‘ſuch is my guardian's pleaſure; but,’ added ſhe ſmiling, ‘you will not miſs me; you will have other company.’ "Other company!" repeated Mrs. Willis.

"Mr. Bale tells me," ſaid miſs Courteney, ‘that your houſe will be full ſoon; ſome gen⯑tlemen [232] recommended by his father will be here.’

"It is ſtrange," ſaid Mrs. Willis, ‘that I ſhould know nothing of it; have you had a letter from your guardian, miſs?’

"No," replied miſs Courteney; ‘but his ſon has heard from him—But,’ purſued ſhe, after a little pauſe, ‘it is ſtrange, as you ſay, that you ſhould not know you are to have new lodgers.’

Mrs. Willis looked at her attentively, as ſhe ſpoke theſe words, "May I aſk you, miſs," ſaid ſhe, "the cauſe of your ſudden removal?"

"I know of none," replied miſs Courteney; ‘but that, my guardian thinks it will not be proper for me to ſtay among ſo many gentle⯑men as will ſhortly be your lodgers.’

‘I wiſh there had been a better reaſon than that,’ ſaid Mrs. Willis; ‘for I am very ſure I am to have no lodgers recommended by the elder Mr. Bale, otherwiſe I ſhould have known it.’

"Has not his ſon told you ſo?" aſked miſs Courteney, in great confuſion of thought.

"He told me nothing," replied Mrs. Willis, "but that you are to leave me to-morrow."

"Lord bleſs me," cried the young lady, in great emotion, "what can this mean!"

[233]"Suffer me," ſaid Mrs. Willis, looking on her with tenderneſs and concern, ‘to aſk you a few queſtions: when you know my motives, I am ſure you will not think that it is an imper⯑tinent curioſity which makes me take this li⯑berty, but my anxiety for you.’

"Dear madam," interrupted miſs Courteney, ‘aſk me what you pleaſe: you alarm me ex⯑ceſſively.’

"I would not alarm you," ſaid Mrs. Willis; ‘but I will own to you that I have fears, nay more that I have had doubts; but I ſee I have been to blame with regard to the latter: has Mr. Bale ſhewn you his father's letters, miſs?’

"Shewn them to me!" repeated Henrietta, ‘no—but ſure—dear Mrs. Willis explain your⯑ſelf—I am ready to ſink with the apprehen⯑ſions you have raiſed in my mind.’

"Compoſe yourſelf, my dear," ſaid Mrs. Willis, drawing her chair nearer to her, and taking her hand tenderly. ‘I mean you well; be aſſured I do: and now I will tell you all that has been upon my mind for ſeveral days paſt. Never did I imagine that I ſhould en⯑tertain unfavourable ſuſpicions of the ſon of my benefactor; but indeed, my dear miſs, [234] I am afraid he has not acted ingenuouſly by you.’

That moment a loud knocking at the door interrupted Mrs. Willis. She ſtarted from her chair. "Who can this be?" ſaid ſhe in ſome ſurpriſe; "I will go and ſee." She ran haſtily out of the room; but returning again inſtantly, "Poſſibly," ſaid ſhe, ‘it may be Mr. Bale: remember, miſs, that it is my advice to you not to leave my houſe, if he ſhould deſire you, at leaſt till you have heard what I have to ſay.’

She uttered theſe words with extreme earneſt⯑neſs and concern, and went immediately down ſtairs, leaving Henrietta in an agony of doubt, anxiety, and aſtoniſhment.

Her ſurpriſe kept her motionleſs in her chair, till ſhe was rouſed by the voice of a woman upon the ſtairs that led to her apartment, whom ſhe heard ſay, with great haughtineſs of accent, ‘No, there is no occaſion for that ceremony; I ſhall go in without introduction, I aſſure you.’

She ſuddenly ſtarted from her chair, and was going towards the door, when ſhe ſaw it [...]ung open with ſome violence, and a lady of a [...] diſagreeable figure but richly dreſſed, and in the utmoſt extremity of the faſhion, appear at the entrance.

[235]Miſs Courteney, recovering a little from her ſurpriſe, looked at the lady, in order to recol⯑lect whether ſhe had ever ſeen her before; but being wholly unacquainted with her features, and obſerving that ſhe ſtood ſtill and gazed at her without ſpeaking, ſhe concluded the viſit could not be deſigned for her.

"I fancy, madam," ſaid ſhe, approaching her, ‘you are miſtaken; I am not the perſon you ſeek.’

"No, madam," returned the lady with an "emphaſis, "I am not miſtaken;" then throw⯑ing herſelf haughtily into a chair, ‘I ſhall not aſk your leave,’ ſaid ſhe, with a malignant ſmile, ‘to ſit down in this apartment; I may take that liberty with what belongs to Mr. Bale—Do you know me pray, madam.’

"Not I, truly," replied miſs Courteney, indignation at this inſolent treatment having baniſhed her former terror and ſurpriſe, and ſeat⯑ing herſelf, with a careleſs air, juſt oppoſite to her, ‘Pray let me know what is your buſi⯑neſs with me,’ ſaid ſhe.

"Port creature!" ſaid the ſtranger, affecting contempt, while her lips quivered with rage, and her whole frame ſeemed convulſed with the violence of her emotions: ‘What! you would [236] have me underſtand you to be a woman of fortune, would you not?—Upon my word,’ ſaid ſhe, looking round her, ‘this is a very handſome apartment. Your dreſſing-room, forſooth! You have your forms, no doubt, and receive company in your dreſſing-room in a morning. A very genteel diſhabi [...] too; and your face varniſhed over ſo nicely!— Who would not conclude that white and re [...] to be natural?’

"You are come here to inſult me, I find," ſaid Henrietta, her fine face glowing with in⯑dignation.— ‘I cannot imagine what cauſe I have given you for this ſtrange rudeneſs. I never, as I can remember, ever ſaw you be⯑fore; and inſiſt upon your quitting my apart⯑ment. You can have no buſineſs with me, I am ſure.’

"Indeed but I have, minx," ſaid the ſtranger, with the pale rage of a fury; ‘and my buſineſs is to turn you out of this apartment: my for⯑tune ſhall not be waſted in ſupporting ſuch wretches.’

"Your fortune!" cried miſs Courteney, in aſtoniſhment: ‘What have I to do with [...] or your fortune?—Who are you?’

[237]This moment Mrs. Willis entered the room: "Excuſe me, ladies," ſaid ſhe; ‘I heard high words between you.’

"Ladies!" interrupted the ſtranger: ‘how dare you, woman, join me with ſuch a crea⯑ture?—What buſineſs have you to intrude?’

"Madam," replied Mrs. Willis, ‘I came to inform this young lady, my boarder, who you are: ſhe does not know you.—Miſs, this is young Mr. Bale's lady.’

"What!" cried Henrietta, in the utmoſt aſtoniſhment, "is Mr. Bale married?"

"Oh—you are ſurpriſed then," ſaid the lady, with a ſneer: ‘diſappointed too, perhaps.— You had the confidence, I ſuppoſe, to think he would have married you one of theſe days!—Tell me, you wicked thing, did he ever give you ſuch hopes?—Oh I could tear his eyes out!’ ſaid ſhe, riſing, and walking about the room like one frantick, while the enormous length of her negligee ſwept the room, like the train of a tragedy-queen.— ‘A wretch, to uſe me thus! me, who has brought him ſuch a fortune! But I'll be revenged: he ſhall never have a quiet moment. I'll make him know what it is to ſlight a woman of virtue.’

[238]All this time Henrietta continued ſilent, rooted in her chair, and with difficulty reſtrained the anguiſh of her heart from riſing to her eyes, leſt this outrageous woman of virtue ſhould exult in her diſtreſs, yet ſhe ſaw that ſhe was betrayed; that Mr. Bale had acted weakly, if not baſely▪ her reputation was ruined, yet ſhe would not ſtoop ſo low as to enter into any juſtification of her⯑ſelf to a woman who had treated her ſo cruelly, upon a bare ſuſpicion. The pride of affronted virtue came to her aid, againſt that torrent of overwhelming grief, which had for ſome mo⯑ments abſorbed all her faculties: ſhe roſe from her chair, and approaching Mrs. Bale,

"The error you are in," ſaid ſhe, ‘would have moved my compaſſion, had you treated me with leſs inſolence. I ſcorn to undeceive you.—Go, learn from your huſband who I am; and bluſh, if you can, for the injurious language you have given a perſon as much your ſuperior by birth, as in that virtue perhaps of which you boaſt, and which has not with⯑held you from ſuch indecent tranſports of jea⯑louſy, as it would become a virtuous woman to ſuppreſs.’

The ſuperiority with which ſhe ſpoke, the dignity of her air and manner, ſtruck her mean-ſouled adverſary with ſuch awe, that ſhe con⯑tinued [239] ſilent for ſome moments, with her hag⯑gard looks fixed on her. Envy, at the view of ſo lovely a form, added new ſtings to her rage and jealouſy. At length, ſhe poured forth a torrent of reproaches, with ſuch eagerneſe of malice, that her words were ſcarce intelligible.

"I am not uſed to ſcolding," ſaid miſs Courteney, calmly, retiring towards her bed⯑chamber, ‘and you, Mrs. Bale, ſeem to be an excellent ſcold.’

The lady, provoked at this appellation, em⯑ployed the coarſeſt language imaginable to ex⯑preſs her reſentment of the injury; but miſs Courteney took ſhelter in her bedchamber, the door of which ſhe double-locked.

"Inſolent trollop," ſaid Mrs. Bale, raiſing her voice that ſhe might hear her, ‘call me ſcold! I ſcorn your words, you ſaucy, impu⯑dent, audacious huſſy: I never could ſcold in my life—no, you dirty puſs:—I am a woman of breeding; I am none of your beggarly quality: I had forty thouſand pounds to my portion, you proud paultry minx.—Scold! call me a ſcold—’

"Pray, madam, compoſe yourſelf," ſaid Mrs. Willis, ‘and do me the favour to walk down into my parlour.—Here is ſome miſ⯑take. [240] I am pretty certain you have i [...]d this young lady by your ſuſpicions.’

"Young lady!" interrupted Mrs. Bale, ‘What makes her a lady?—A fine world it is, now-adays, when beggars are called ladies. I would fain know what fortune ſhe has to put her upon a footing with ladies.’

"I know nothing of her fortune, madam," ſaid Mrs. Willis.

"Fortune! poor wretch!" ſaid Mrs. Bale: ‘a few paultry hundreds.—Such ladies▪ Sup⯑poſe her grandfather was an earl, has ſhe a fortune? anſwer me that.’

"I don't know, really," replied Mrs. Willis. "Well then," ſaid Mrs. Bale, ‘why do you give her a title ſhe has no right to? But why do I talk to you, vile wretch? you are my huſband's confident.’

This thought renewed all her rage, and ſhe loaded Mrs. Willis with ſuch ſhocking in [...] ⯑tives, that the poor woman could not refrain from tears.

"Your huſband's father, madam," ſaid ſhe, ‘has been a generous benefactor to me: I con⯑ſider that, and will be patient under you [...] abuſe.’

The word abuſe was ſuch a charge upon th [...] lady's want of breeding, that ſhe called M [...] [241] Willis a hundred ſaucy jades, for daring to ſay that ſhe was capable of abuſing any body; and having almoſt exhauſted her ſpirits with the violence of her paſſions, and finding that Mrs. Willis ſat ſilent, and took no further notice of what ſhe ſaid, ſhe flounced out of the room, declaring, that her father-in-law ſhould know that ſhe acted as procureſs for his ſon, and that ſhe ſhould return to her rags and poverty again.

Mrs. Willis thought her behaviour diſpenſed with her from treating her with that reſpect, which ſhe would have otherwiſe paid to Mr. Bale's daughter-in-law, and therefore did not offer to wait on her down ſtairs, but rung the bell for ſomebody to attend her, and, locking the door after her, ſhe tapped gently at miſs Courteney's chamber-door, telling her, that Mrs. Bale was gone.

Who is this fury?" ſaid the young lady, as ſhe came out. ‘You have been treated very ill by her, Mrs. Willis, I am ſorry for it.’ ‘And I am ſorry for what you have ſuffered, my dear miſs,’ replied Mrs. Willis; ‘but Mr. Bale is to blame for it all. I am now ſure you are entirely innocent.’

"Innocent!" repeated miſs Courteney, with a ſigh — ‘How low am I fallen, when that [242] could ever be doubted! But Mrs. Willis, you knew, it ſeems, that Mr. Bale was married, I am ſurpriſed you never mentioned his wife to me.’

"And are you not ſurpriſed, miſs," ſaid Mr. Willis, ‘that Mr. Bale never mentioned he [...] to you?’

"To be ſure that was very ſtrange," repiled Henrietta, "what could he mean by it!"

"Ah! miſs," ſaid Mrs. Willis, ‘a very little reflection on Mr. Bale's behaviour might have informed you that he was in love with you.’

"In love with me!" cried Henrietta, bluſh⯑ing with ſhame and reſentment.

"Yes," ſaid Mrs. Willis, ‘in love with you; if that can be called love, which ſeeks the ruin of its object. I ſaw it in his looks, his words, cautious as they were, his whole behaviour ſhewed it but too plainly.’

"And this man married too!" cried Hen⯑rietta, lifting up her eyes. ‘To what have [...], by one raſh ſtep, reduced myſelf! But ſtill, Mrs. Willis, my firſt difficulty [...], why did you avoid ſpeaking of his wife to me?’

"Hear me, my dear, with patience," inter⯑rupted Mrs. Willis, ‘I ſhall be very f [...]e; but my plainneſs ought not to offend you, ſ [...]e [243] it is a mark of my ſincerity.’ Mrs. Willis pauſed here a moment, and then proceeded, as will be ſound in the following chapter.

CHAP. XV.

‘YOU may remember I told you, ſoon after you came here, that before I went to Leghorn, I heard Mr. Bale was courting the daughter of a rich citizen; I had been re⯑turned but three or four days, when he came to me to know if I could accommodate a young lady, a ward of his father's, with lodging and board; to which I readily con⯑ſented.’

‘It is no flattery, miſs, to tell you, that when I ſaw you, I was charmed with your perſon and behaviour: your beauty, and Mr. Bale's extreme aſſiduity, made it ſeem highly probable that he loved you. I ſet myſelf to examine his behaviour, and the obſervations I made on it confirmed my ſuſpicions. I had then heard nothing of his being married, having upon my return been ſo taken up with [244] my domeſtick affairs, that I had no leiſure to make or receive viſits, from which I could re⯑ceive any information concerning what had happened in my abſence.’

‘I was a little ſurpriſed to find that you had been introduced to me under a feigned name, and that you were not called Benſon, but Courteney. However, I made no reflections upon that circumſtance, till, about t [...]d [...]s afterwards, I accidentally heard that Mr. Bale had been married two months; then it was, that in my aſtoniſhment at his ſo contiouſly avoiding any mention of his wife, I was led to reflect upon what you yourſelf had informed me of your ſituation, your flight from your friends; Mr. Bale's apparent tenderneſs for you awakened ſuſpicions: I own it diſadvan⯑tageous to you.’

‘I waited impatiently for the ho [...] of Mr. Bale's viſiting you, and the moment I ſaw him wiſhed him joy on his marriage, expreſſing my ſurpriſe that I ſhould not have heard of that event from himſelf. He coloured, and ſeemed in great confuſion; and, after a little pauſe, Have you ſaid any thing of it to miſs Courteney? ſaid he.’

[245]"I replied that I had heard the news but an "hour before, and had not ſeen you ſince.

‘You will oblige me (ſaid he) if you will not mention it to her— I ſtared— My wife (continued he) is the moſt unreaſonable wo⯑man in the world; ſhe has taken it into her head to be horribly jealous of me, though we have been married ſo ſhort a time— It was a match (and he ſighed) of my father's making — but I aſſure you I am very un⯑happy.’

‘I am ſorry for it, ſir (interrupted I) but what reaſons have you for concealing from miſs Courteney that you are married?’

‘It is a ſad thing, Mrs. Willis (ſaid he) when a man is not maſter in his own family. I hope that is not your caſe, ſir, anſwered I. Indeed but it is, he replied. Miſs Courte⯑ney, you know, is agreeable. Oh! very agreeable, ſaid I. My wife is of ſuch an un⯑accountable humour (reſumed he) that I durſt not offer miſs Courteney, though my father is her guardian, an aſylum in my houſe, till her relations were reconciled to her, leſt I ſhould be teazed with jealouſy and ſuſpi⯑cions.’

[246] ‘I am perſuaded, ſir (ſaid I) that miſs Cour⯑teney has too much good ſenſe to take [...] [...]iſs that you did not invite her to your houſe as things were circumſtanced. She has more reaſon to be diſpleaſed at your concealing your marriage from her, which every body knows, and which ſhe would ſoon know if ſhe lived leſs retired.’

‘Let me intreat you, Mrs. Willis (ſaid he) not to mention it to miſs Courteney. I would not upon any account that ſhe ſhould know I am married, yet could not offer her an apart⯑ment in my houſe.’

‘Indeed, ſir (ſaid I, ſmiling) you make [...] matter of more conſequence than you need to do; miſs Courteney will not conſider it as any ſlight to her.’

‘She muſt either think herſelf ſlighted (re⯑ſumed he, with quickneſs) by my not inviſ [...] her, or ſhe will divine the reaſon, which would be worſe; for in that caſe, her delicacy is ſo extreme, that ſhe would never allow me to ſee her.’

‘Ah, thought I, is it ſo! He perceived he had almoſt betrayed himſelf; and changed the diſcourſe, aſking me many queſtions about my huſband, whoſe diligence and fidelity he highly extolled, dropping hints of deſigns in his ſa⯑vour; [247] and indeed it is in his power to be of great ſervice to him.’

"But I had no ſatisfaction," purſued Mrs. Willis, ‘in what he ſaid; for, to my appre⯑henſion, it appeared as if he ſought to bribe me into a concurrence with his deſigns, what⯑ever they were. Therefore I ſat ſilent, and I believe diſcovered by my looks, that I did not like his proceedings; for he roſe up, and, with an air of ſome reſentment, ſaid,’

‘That his father would be in town in a few days, and would then diſpoſe of you properly; and that in the mean time he muſt inſiſt upon my being ſilent with regard to his marriage, ſince it would throw him into great confuſion if you knew it; and added, that he thought he might reaſonably expect this inſtance of my complaiſance.’

‘I told him that I was very glad to hear his father would be in town ſo ſoon, and would take the young lady under his own care: that ſince he deſired it, I would not be the firſt to acquaint you with his marriage; I owned his reaſons appeared to me very whimſical: but that it was not my buſineſs to be impertinently curious; and that I ſhould concern myſelf no farther about it.’

[248] ‘He ſeemed pleaſed with this indifference, and went up ſtairs to ſee you. I had already taken my reſolution, my dear miſs Courteney, which was to write to his father, and ac⯑quaint him with the whole tranſaction. I was willing to leave the young gentleman in a falſe ſecurity, that he might not ſuſpect my deſign, and take meaſures to render it uſeleſs; and not being ſure how far even you might be truſted, for my ſuſpicions of you, though weakened, were not yet removed, I thought it beſt to ſay nothing that could alarm you, till I had received the old gentleman's advice how to act; but my meaſures were broke by Mr. Bale's reſolving to take you from my houſe.’

‘He came into the parlour to me to-day, be⯑fore you ſaw him, and told me, that he had directions from his father to ſend you into the country, becauſe he did not expect to return for ſome time yet, and he did not approve of your reſiding in London till he came.’

‘You may eaſily imagine, miſs, that I was not ſatisfied with the cauſe he aſſigned for this ſudden reſolution. I was now alarmed for you; and judged it neceſſary to acquaint you imme⯑diately with Mr. Bale's being married, that [249] you might not fall ignorantly into his ſnares. I began with asking you queſtions, to which the openneſs and ſimplicity of your anſwers convinced me that you were impoſed upon greatly by Mr. Bale. I was going to explain myſelf clearly, when Mrs. Bale's arrival in⯑terrupted me. You know with what earneſt⯑neſs I intreated you not to leave my houſe; I was apprehenſive that he was come to hurry you away, and I trembled for the danger to which you were expoſed.’

‘When I left you, I met Mrs. Bale upon the ſtairs; and, not knowing her, I asked, who it was ſhe deſired to ſee? The young woman that lodges with you, ſaid ſhe, in a tone of voice that ſurpriſed me. I told her, I would go and acquaint you that there was a lady wanted to ſpeak to you: but ſhe ruſhed by me, ſaying, there is no need of that ce⯑remony, I ſhall introduce myſelf.’

‘Her behaviour recalling to my mind what Mr. Bale had ſaid of his wife's jealouſy, I ſuſpected this was the lady; and, to be aſ⯑ſured, I enquired of a ſervant, who attended her, who ſhe was. The moment I knew it was really her, I flew up ſtairs, being full of concern for you; for I ſaw a ſtorm in her [250] countenance, and dreaded the conſequence— The poor young man is indeed plagued with a jealous wife; and in that particular he told the truth. But, my dear miſs, I ſee plainly that the myſtery he has made of his connexi⯑ons with you has rouzed her ſuſpicions.’

‘It is all an incomprehenſible myſtery to me,’ ſaid Henrietta, ſighing: ‘Mr. Bale has certainly deceived me, for what purpoſes I know not; but I know that I will never ſee him again, but in the preſence of his father, to have this dark affair cleared up.’

‘But, my dear Mrs. Willis, how ſhall I ex⯑preſs what my heart feels for you, who have ſhewn ſo tender a regard for my honour and quiet— How miſerable might I have been, had you been leſs good—I am ſure I may rely upon your prudence— Adviſe me then what to do: you know my ſtory; you ſee my preſent ſituation— I have no friend, no pro⯑tector.’

"My dear miſs," interrupted Mrs. Willis, ‘there is but one thing for you to do, and that is, to return to your aunt.’

"How can I appear before her?" ſaid Hen⯑rietta, ‘after having ſo greatly diſobliged her [251] by my flight; a flight which has had ſuch diſ⯑graceful conſequences. Beſides, do not the ſame motives that obliged me to leave her, ſtill ſubſiſt? and are they not equally ſtrong againſt my returning?’

"I would not pain you, my dear miſs," ſaid Mrs. Willis, ‘with the recollection of a paſt error, were it not to make it uſeful to you in your preſent circumſtances— Warned as you were of your aunt's deſigns, it was impoſſible to carry them into execution without your concurrence: your flight therefore was not neceſſary, and, if not neceſſary, ſurely it was highly imprudent; and, in my opinion, can only be repaired by a voluntary return.— Need I tell a young lady of your delicacy, that imputations, however unjuſt, fully, if they do not ſtain a character. Do you think this woman's frantic jealouſy will be ſilent? how can you otherwiſe prove the falſhood of her aſſertions, than by returning to your aunt, and making yourſelf accountable to her for all your actions? Nothing can be more un⯑fortunate for youth and beauty, than to be left to its own guidance and diſcretion. The world ſeldom attributes too much prudence to youth: however regular our conduct may be in that [252] gay time of life, it is ſuppoſed to be owing to the care and attention of our parents or rela⯑tions, rather than to our own circumſpection. Can a young woman, who voluntarily ſets herſelf free from that reſtraint, hope to eſcape unfavourable cenſures, when thoſe who owe it to chance only that they are not ſubjected to any control, ſuffer perhaps in the opinion of the world, becauſe they are poſſeſſed of a liberty which they may make an improper uſe of?’

‘You ſee, my dear, to what inconveniencies you have been expoſed: theſe are the neceſ⯑ſary conſequences of your unprotected ſtate; there is no doubt but you would repel every attempt to the prejudice of your honour: but does not modeſty, if not virtue, ſuffer by ſuch attempts? and can you acquit yourſelf of im⯑prudence, when you reflect that you have thrown yourſelf into a ſituation which renders you liable to them?’

"It was indeed," ſaid Henrietta, who, by her bluſhes and confuſion, acknowledged the ſtrength of her reaſons, ‘imprudence to throw myſelf into this ſituation, but it would be guilt to continue in it. Oh! that I had had ſuch a friend as you to adviſe with at Windſor, I [253] ſhould never have taken a ſtep, which I bluſh to think of now. I will return to my aunt, Mrs. Willis, I will throw myſelf upon her mercy; and if I muſt be made a ſacrifice of —’

‘Indeed, my dear (interrupted Mrs. Willis) theſe fears are groundleſs: you cannot poſſibly be married againſt your conſent; and you have it always in your power to refuſe. As for the convent, you cannot be cheated into it, that is certain, ſince you know ſhe had ſuch a deſign, and may guard againſt it.’

‘But ſuppoſe (ſaid miſs Courteney) that ſhe ſhould not receive me again; Mr. Bale found her inexorable.’

"Ah! my dear," replied Mrs. Willis, ſhaking her head, ‘Mr. Bale was not a fit perſon to be truſted with ſuch a negociation: but, how⯑ever that may be, I am ſure, when your aunt knows in what manner he has acted, and the reaſons you have to diſtruſt him, ſhe will think it neceſſary to take you out of his hands. Your return to her will remove her ſuſpicions againſt you, and convince her that it was from a ſudden impulſe of fear only, that you left her; and that you had no deſire of [254] diſpoſing of yourſelf contrary to her inclina⯑tions.’

‘But I have one ſavour to beg of you (ſaid miſs Courteney) and that is, that you will go along with me to my aunt; reſentment may ſhut her ears to all that I can ſay to her, but I think, ſhe cannot reſiſt your pleas, urged with that good ſenſe you poſſeſs in ſo high a de⯑gree.’

‘Doubt not, my dear (ſaid Mrs. Willis) but I am ready to do you any ſervice in my power.’

"What hinders us then from going directly?" cried Henrietta, eagerly; ‘we can get a poſt⯑chaiſe, and —’

‘The day is too far advanced (replied Mrs. Willis) we will, if you pleaſe, ſet out early to-morrow morning, I will take care to have a poſt-chaiſe in readineſs; in the mean time you may depend upon being ſecure from any diſagreeable viſits here, neither Mr. Bale nor his fury of a wife ſhall ſee you, unleſs you de⯑ſire they ſhould.’

‘Notwithſtanding the treatment ſhe gave me (ſaid miſs Courteney) I would rather ſee her than him; but you may well imagine, Mrs. Willis, that I do not wiſh to ſee either of them.’

[255] ‘Make yourſelf eaſy, my dear (ſaid Mrs. Willis) you ſhall meet with no inſult of any kind in my houſe.’

Henrietta embraced her with tears of grati⯑tude, which the good woman returned with a parental tenderneſs, and then left her to give the neceſſary directions for their little journey the next day.