THE HISTORY OF SIR GEORGE WARRINGTON; OR THE POLITICAL QUIXOTE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE
FEMALE QUIXOTE.
IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. BELL, OXFORD-STREET. MDCCXCVII.
CHAP. I.
ON their arrival at Mr. Goldney's house, that gentleman introduced him to his lady, "as a noble-minded stranger, with whom he had made an accidental but a fortunate acquaintance, from discovering, that one soul united them, one hope animated, and, he trusted, would equally stimulate them to some glorious and daring acts for the advantage of their country, to preserve it from thraldom and disgrace; since, to incite his countrymen to follow the example of their Gallic neighbours was all he wished for; and to die in this cause would give him a far greater degree of satisfaction, than to live peaceably but ignobly, surrounded by slaves and vassals."
Mrs. Goldney, accustomed to these rants, heard him with the utmost indifference, and, curtseying coldly to our hero, surveyed him with the most scrutinizing attention. The fact was, she did not love strangers; and, presuming on her superior penetration (a quality in which she was particularly defective), always suspected people had some hidden motive for their most trivial actions. The look which she now gave Sir George, if translated, would have expressed: "What brought you hither? No good, I doubt. I do not love these sudden friendships: there is always some meaning in them which even my judgment cannot penetrate."
The Baronet, of whose acute discernment we have yet given very little proof, entirely unconscious of her suspicions, returned her cool address with his usual frankness. They were now summoned to supper, when a more general conversation ensued. That, however, soon gave way to their favourite topic; and it lasted until a very late hour. Mrs. Goldney during this sat quite silent, though evidently wishing to talk; but the following morning afforded her an opportunity of displaying both her character and abilities. Mr. Goldney being called out of the room on some business, a poor woman soon after came up to the window, with an infant in her arms, and every mark of sickness and poverty on her countenance. Mrs. Goldney, throwing up the sash, bade her begone, with a harsh voice; and, on her humble remonstrances and continued petitions, added, "she must apply to the parish for relief, as she had nothing to give her;" and was then going to shut the window, when our hero, gently preventing her, threw the poor wretch half a crown; who, invoking every blessing on his head, retired with some precipitation, as Mrs. Goldney at the same moment was threatening to send for the constable, and have her committed as a vagrant.
When the woman was out of sight, the lady re-seated herself; and partly with a view of reproving Sir George's extravagance, and partly to exculpate herself from the imputation of uncharitableness, she began every relation of impositions that had ever happened to herself or her acquaintance in the course of her life. These she kept in her mind for similar occasions, and never failed to produce them when required: and they constantly served her for an excuse; for never was she known to be guilty of the crime of giving to common beggars—a vice that is preached and talked against much more than is necessary; for, among the various methods by which fortunes are ruined and estates impaired in this fashionable age, that of charity is not to be found. I would not have it from this declaration be supposed I mean to accuse either the age or nation of a deficiency in this truly christian virtue. On the contrary, when I recollect the infinite number of hospitals, infirmaries, public schools, and private charities, with which this kingdom abounds, I exult in the idea of being myself the native of a country, that in this respect exceeds almost all others; and, humbly relying on the hope that charity will cover a multitude of sins, trust that we shall be supported and defended by a superior power from (as is expressed in my motto)
The assault of foreign or domestic crime.
I only mean simply to assert, that, as charity was never yet known to hurt its possessor, I know not why its ardour should ever be damped by the too cold and too rigid hand of strict propriety, which would forbid our ever bestowing on vagrants, lest we should sometimes bestow unworthily. But sure this is not acting according to the precepts of our Divine Master, who, in telling us to "judge not, lest we should be judged," certainly meant, that we should not limit our benevolence, or confine it to those objects whom we deem alone to be worthy; since, as short-sighted mortals ourselves, we can never know what calamities or temptations may have invaded the bosoms, and destroyed the peace, of those who solicit relief; and consequently can never guess how far they may be deserving of it.
To return:—When Mrs. Goldney had wearied our hero with a long list of the impostors she had met with, he replied: "But, my dear Madam, this poor creature must be a real object of distress: she had the paleness of death on her countenance: that, sure, could not be assumed."
"Indeed, Sir," answered the lady, "but it might. Do you not remember, a few years since, the girl that was found, dying as she pretended, on some common, I forget where; and the man who actually feigned himself dead, to gain admittance at the Duchess of P—'s country seat?"
She was proceeding to relate the other circumstances of this really strange affair, when Mr. Goldney re-entered the room, and asked Sir George if he would walk with him round his fields. He immediately assented, glad to be relieved from the lady, whose long and uninteresting details had wearied him. Our hero hoped, during their little ramble, he should find some proof that Mr. Goldney's conduct was regulated by his principles, not his passions; flattering himself it was only the effect of unguarded warmth that had betrayed him into an act of absolute cruelty: but he was disappointed. His labourers, his servants, and even his tenants, were evidently in awe of him; and he perceived in his addresses to them none of that spirit of philanthropy of which he had boasted so much. Hurt by this conviction, he returned to the house, secretly lamenting he had promised to stay till the following morning: but, not knowing what plea to make for an earlier departure unless he confessed the truth (a measure not to be taken without forfeiting every pretence to good manners as well as courtesy), he was obliged to be content; and, a neighbouring family joining them at tea, the afternoon went off better than he expected. At supper the old and favourite topic was renewed, and the natural equality of man discussed with even more than usual warmth; and again at a late hour they retired to their respective apartments.
The next morning, about seven o'clock, our hero was awakened by a violent uproar, which grew every moment so much louder, that he hasted to dress himself, from a hope that he might have it in his power to assist the family, as he doubted not but they were in some great distress, though of what nature he was yet to learn: but, on attempting to go down stairs, he found his chamber door locked on the outside. This seriously alarmed him, and he rang the bell: the noise still continued, and for some time prevented his hearing a little shrill voice through the door, crying, "What would you please to want, Sir?" "I want the door opened for me to go down stairs," returned our hero.
"I am very sorry, Sir," said the voice in a still more tremulous accent, "that I can't unlock it; but master has got the key."
"You can ask him for it, I suppose?" cried Sir George, almost angrily: "How long must I stay here?"
"Only, Sir, till the constables are come; and they'll be here in a minute."
"The constables!" exclaimed he: "For what purpose?"
The girl at the outside was now terrified; and a man running up the flairs, she called him, and desired he would answer the gentleman; and then made her escape. Sir George now repeated the question, and asked him for what purpose the constables were sent for, and what occasioned the uproar? The man replied, "he did not know;" and, more frightened than the girl, followed her to the scene of action.
The peace-officers now arrived; and the door of Sir George's chamber being unlocked, they charged him in the King's name as an accomplice in the robbery committed that night on the property of Mr. Goldney.
Our hero, all astonishment, required an explanation, which after some time was granted; and he learned, that Mr. Goldney's butler, having broken open his master's bureau, and taken out a considerable sum, had made off with it, leaving a letter behind to excuse his conduct.
"And did that letter criminate me?" asked our hero, with that calm dignity which only conscious innocence can give.
"No," replied the person from whom he had this information (who was a neighbour Mr. Goldney had called in on making the discovery); "you are only taken up on suspicion; and the grounds for your accusation are so weak, there is no doubt but on examination you will be instantly acquitted."
"I have so little reason to fear," returned the Baronet, "that I yield without opposition; though I must say, Mr. Goldney's conduct is inexcusable, and totally unlike a gentleman. May I see the letter you allude to?"
"Yes, certainly," said the man. He then gave him the letter, and he read as follows:
SIR,
BY the time you meet with these lines, you will have discovered my making free with what you probably call part of your property; but the conversations which passed yesterday and the day before between you and the strange gentleman have convinced me, that every man has an equal right to the goods this world can afford. Now it is but a very small share that I have taken to myself: you had an abundance, I had a necessity; and you cannot, therefore, in conscience, be angry with me for taking the first opportunity of equalizing property (as you call it) as far as lay in my power; though I certainly begin before the scheme is general, as you last night declared you hoped it would soon be: and from this declaration I have reason to think you would rather applaud than condemn me. But not choosing to trust entirely to this, as I have too often seen gentlemen who speak one thing when they mean another, I will take good care to avoid a prosecution, by getting quite out of your reach. I have only to add my thanks to the strange gentleman for putting this in my head, by speaking of the propriety of a division of property; as to him I shall probably be indebted for a comfortable maintenance, till the grand scheme is put in execution, which will make me at once your brother as well as friend.
DANIEL TURNER.
The degree of clever assurance in this letter would have made our hero smile, had he not felt too much ashamed and disconcerted at the recollection, that the liberty of speech he had allowed himself was probably the cause of this action, by which Mr. Goldney was a considerable sufferer, and the poor wretch himself, in fact, would be more deeply so; as it must in future prevent him from all honest resources, and oblige him to continue in a way of life which too surely would terminate in the gallows. But here a want of knowing the world was again his enemy, or he would have discovered, from the style of the letter, that Mr. Daniel Turner was an old offender; and that equalizing property was his excuse, but had not been his motive: and this discovery might have consoled him. As it was, he returned it to the person, and was going to ask farther particulars when he was summoned to the parlour. His cheek glowed with honest indignation on entering that room as a criminal, where he had been received as a guest and courted as a superior.
The first fury of Mr. Goldney's passion being now abated, he behaved with a constrained civility, and apologized for the violent measures he was obliged to pursue; but added, "it was a duty he owed to himself and to society." Our hero made no reply but by an indignant glance; when Mrs. Goldney took up the subject, but spoke only in dark hints and ambiguous phrases.
"For my part, I always suspect strangers that come to one's house for one knows not what. I think 'tis a mercy we were not all murdered in our beds; but this is only what one may very well expect."
Sir George could no longer remain silent. "Is this, Madam," said he, "a proof either of your philanthropy or your justice? I came to your house a stranger, it is true; but I came not unsolicited by Mr. Goldney, who was as much unknown to me as I was to him. I was a single man unarmed: what, therefore, could I have effected against yourselves and your servants? Yet, because one of the latter has committed an act of violence on your property, you infringe all the laws of hospitality by accusing me as his accomplice."
"No, no," cried the lady; "we shall take care not to infringe the laws, because that might bring us into a scrape ourselves; you are only committed for examination before a justice; and, if he acquits you, 'tis all very well."
"If he has any right to the name, he will acquit me," returned Sir George; "nor can I see any plea you have for detaining me: though, I would not now accept liberty till my character is publicly cleared."
"Not see any plea!" resumed the lady: "did not the man in his letter say you persuaded him to rob us?"
"Just Heaven!" exclaimed Sir George, "I persuaded him!"
"Well well, you put it into his head—that's all one—I suppose."
"The law will determine that," said our hero coldly; "but pray how much longer am I to wait your leisure?"
"When I have done breakfast, we shall set out," said Mr. Goldney.
Our hero made no reply; and they all continued silent, till the former ordered the carriage. His lady then entreated he would not go in the chaise with the villain, lest he should do him a mischief. At this the Baronet was very near losing the calmness he had hitherto maintained; but, checking his rising passion, he replied contemptuously, "I fear, Madam, your apprehensions may disorder you; but pray be satisfied, I have no
farther
ill intentions."
Mr. Goldney then said, he meant to walk himself; and set out directly, leaving our hero to follow in the carriage with his two attendants.
CHAP. II.
MR. Cameron the justice having been previously informed that a robber was coming before him to be examined, and the story gaining some addition from every person who related it, it was at last currently reported that a highwayman was apprehended, who had stopped two gentlemen's carriages and a stage coach: and this intelligence drawing together all ranks of people, Mr. Cameron's hall was filled before the criminal and his accusers arrived.
What various emotions arose in the heart of our hero, when, amidst the stupid gaze of an unfeeling populace, he was led in, followed by Mr. Goldney! The attorney to whom he had given the five guineas for the use of the poor family happening to be present, on seeing him, exclaimed: "Is that the gentleman accused as a highwayman? He is an angel rather: he is no more a highwayman than I am!"
"If you had said a rogue," replied a pert young spark with a loud laugh, "perhaps you might have been right, and the gentleman's character not vindicated neither; for it is said that lawyer and thief are synonymous terms."
"As the law is a profession," answered another gentleman, "where perhaps (according to the ideas however of worldly-minded men) it is easier and more profitable to cheat than to maintain a perfect integrity, it is the more honour to those who maintain in it a firm uprightness of character which nothing can shake; and then not even the intended sarcasms of the wittiest or the silliest of men can fully it even for a moment."
The young man, abashed at this reproof, sat down and was silent.
Mr. Cameron now asked Mr. Goldney what he had to accuse the prisoner of; and he replied in the following manner:
"That gentleman, as he appears to be, I met two days since in the coffee-room at the King's Arms. His sentiments pleased me, because they accorded with my own; and I learnt from his conversation that his name was Warrington, and that he was going up to London with a view of joining some of the republican parties there; and from thence intended to set out for France, to be an eye-witness of the glorious Revolution, and to form a friendship with some of the heads of the nation. I invited him to spend the two or three following days with me; and, he consenting, we set out together. I had no reason, during his stay with me, to suspect him of being any thing but what he appeared, till this morning, when, rising earlier than usual, I went into my study, and there found my bureau broke open, and above two hundred pounds taken out in cash and notes. On the first alarm, I called in a neighbour who happened to pass by; and then summoning my family, discovered the butler was absent, and soon learnt he had not been seen since last night. My wife said, it was well if the stranger had no hand in it, and that I had better secure him. I followed her advice, and, stealing softly up stairs, locked his chamber door on the outside. Whilst I was gone, Mr. Parker saw a letter addressed to me lying on the floor, which, in my confusion, I had overlooked; and, on reading it, I thought I had acted very properly in preventing Mr. Warrington's escape, as it contains an accusation of him; and I instantly determined to bring him before you."
"Very well, Sir," said the justice, "you acted in this respect much more prudently than your guest, who, if really an accessary in your butler's guilt, was most extremely unwise in going to bed again in your house, and not flying with his associate. What have you, Sir (turning to our hero), to say in your defence? and how, after committing such a crime, could you fall asleep, when you must be sensible a discovery would take place in the morning?"
He spoke in a tone of ironical pleasantry that convinced Sir George he saw things in a right point of view; and he immediately replied, "I slept, Sir, because, as I perceive you have already found out, I was ignorant of the whole affair; but I beg you will read the letter alluded to, as I trust that will still farther clear me in your opinion."
Mr. Cameron now desired to see the letter; and, when he had finished it, burst into a hearty laugh, exclaiming, "I thought it would prove so." Then suddenly assuming a graver aspect, he addressed our hero:
"I am sorry, Sir, to disappoint you by declaring you are not still farther cleared in my opinion, as you hoped to be; for, from the first moment Mr. Goldney had given his reasons for accusing you, I thought them so weak, that I was immediately convinced of your innocence of the crime laid to your charge. This letter proves it more fully, as it does not imply you either suggested, or persuaded the butler to commit an action for which he is amenable to the laws of his country; though he plainly says, you put it into his head, by speaking in terms which an ignorant mind or a base heart may easily wrest to their own purposes. Thus far you are guilty, though perhaps unintentionally so; and I flatter myself it will be a caution to you in future not to make public, sentiments that can do you no honour, can be of no service to your hearers, and may, as in the present instance, be of essential disservice, not merely to individuals, but to the world in general. And now, Sir, you are at liberty."
Sir George bowed, and thanked him for his candour and liberality; at the same time declaring he would be very cautious in future of what he said, though he trusted his principles were such as he might avow without a blush; since he could solemnly aver, he had no wish but for the general happiness of mankind, which he had lately been taught was only to be effected by a general equality.
"You have not properly considered this matter, Sir," said Mr. Cameron; "when you have, you will be convinced that the liberty which in all respects Englishmen at present enjoy, under our excellent King and glorious Constitution, gives us as much happiness as we have any right to expect, unless we were more perfect ourselves."
He now addressed Mr. Goldney, who was much confounded at this unexpected termination of the affair, as it proved both his folly and violence, and begged to know from whence he had taken the servant who had robbed him, and how long he had been in his service; adding, as a reason for the enquiry, that he imagined, from the style of the letter, it was not the first offence of the kind he had committed.
Mr. Goldney replied, that "the last place he lived in was Sir John Harborough's, with whom, as Mr. Cameron knew, he had long been at variance: therefore he would not apply to him for a character, but took him without any;" and added, "he had only been with him five weeks."
"Then, Sir," returned the justice, "I can give you some information: about that time Sir John Harborough told me he had parted with a man upon a strong suspicion of dishonesty, but without such proof as could afford a reason for committing him. Had you not suffered an ill-founded resentment to prevent your making proper enquiries, you would at this time have been two hundred pounds in pocket."
The crowd who had assembled now began to disperse; when a gentleman making his way into the room, on seeing our hero, started with surprise, and exclaimed: "Zounds, Sir George! is it you who have been taken up? What, you have been trespassing upon somebody's manor, I suppose? But if so, I'll clear you, for I can swear to your qualification." Then hastily shaking him by the hand, he accosted the justice: "Sir, this gentleman is as honest a man as any in all the county of Northumberland. His name is Sir George Warrington, and he is in possession of a clear estate of six thousand a year; and any thing farther you may require as to his character, I will answer to your satisfaction and his own."
Mr. Cameron bowed, and answered, "he was now more proud of his own discernment, as, from the instant he beheld him, he believed him perfectly innocent, and on examination found he was right."
This gentleman, whose name was Warbourne, was a neighbour of our hero, who, coming to K — on some business, accidentally passed by the justice's door, and, seeing an unusual crowd assembled, inquired what it meant. A beggar-woman, with an infant in her arms, was the first to reply: "that it was a person committed for a robbery, but she was sure he could not be guilty, for the day before he had saved her and her infant from starving, and that she prayed he might be cleared from all suspicion." Mr. Warbourne though a rough was a generous character, and, throwing the woman a shilling, entered the house from a motive of curiosity; and when he saw in the prisoner his neighbour and friend Sir George Warrington, he could not conceal his surprise, but addressed him in the manner that has been already mentioned. When the whole affair was related to him by our hero, who felt no little pleasure at seeing a man of his responsibility, who was known to most of the company assembled, vouch for his reputation, Mr. Warbourne indulged himself in a hearty laugh, and, going up to Mr. Goldney, asked him how he could possibly take Sir George for a thief? That gentleman was already sufficiently mortified at the recollection of his own conduct; and, the address of Mr. Warbourne adding to the irritation he already felt, he replied so warmly, that Mr. Cameron, fearful of the consequences, contrived to draw their attention to the attorney, who was happy in an opportunity of thanking Sir George for his liberality to the poor family, which he said had saved them from ruin. Mr. Cameron then added, that what Mr. Mitford had told him of this liberality had previously given him an idea that Mr. Goldney's accusation was ill-founded as well as ill-judged. He then requested that these gentlemen would favour him with their company at dinner, and, our hero consenting, Mr. Warbourne would not refuse; and Mr. Mitford gladly joined them, as he already felt so strong a prepossession in favour of Sir George, that he wished to cultivate his acquaintance; nor was the latter less inclined to return his regard.
As our hero left the room, he was followed by the acclamations of the multitude, and the blessings of the poor beggar-woman, who, on Mr. Warbourne's relating the share she had in his entering the justice's hall, experienced his bounty in a still higher degree.
CHAP. III.
WHEN they reached the King's Arms, our hero, who had yet tasted nothing that day, ordered some coffee, over which he and his friend entered into conversation, and mutually enquired of each other by what accident they met at such a distance from their respective homes. Mr. Warbourne first replied, "that he was on a visit to a gentleman who lived near St. Albans, but that some business had brought him to K— the preceding day, that would be settled in the evening, and the next morning he meant to return."
Sir George next recounted his adventures, and the motives by which he had been induced to quit Warrington Castle, and the plan he had formed in consequence of his newly-entertained principles. Mr. Warbourne started at this confession. He was a man of sound judgment and good sense, though unpolished manners: he instantly saw the precipice on which his young friend stood, and sought to lead him gently from it, not by contradiction but persuasion, as he well understood his character, and was aware he would, in his present humour, fire at the least opposition.
"Well," said he, "and you retain your intentions, in spite of all you have met with to damp your ardour?"
"I do not understand you," replied Sir George.
"Why," answered the other, "I mean the unpleasant situation you have just been released from, and which you certainly were drawn into by so public an avowal of your principles; and the elopement of Mr. Benjamin Potter and Miss Thornton; an event undoubtedly the consequence of these new-fangled notions of equality, as the man himself confessed. I should think these would convince you that the old way is the best, since you have had no proof of the contrary. But however, we will talk this over some other time; and now suppose you were to go back with me to Mr. Digby's, and stay a few days; you will find him a pleasant man, and the family particularly agreeable, and, as my friend, I will insure you a welcome reception."
"I thank you," returned our hero; "I should be happy to pay my respects to any one you value; but at present I am engaged. But let me speak a moment in defence of my own principles. You consider every event I have met with in my journey as the consequence of mistaken ideas, either in myself or others; but you forget that perfection is not to be expected from any thing; that in the infancy even of the Roman republic, it was supported by stratagem and violence; and because a few men have availed themselves of the general principles of the nation, to commit actions suggested only by their own base hearts, you unjustly condemn a whole party. Consider also, my dear Sir, as our great poet expresses it,
All discord' is 'harmony not understood,
All partial evil, universal good.'
"Ay ay," replied Mr. Warbourne laughing, "I dare say it is so; for I am certain the discord in France is harmony that Englishmen cannot understand; and I hope their emissaries will not endeavour to teach us." He now saw the folly of contending with a young man who was glowing with the ardour of liberty, and gave up the point; though not without an earnest hope that some event, more striking than any he had yet experienced, would at length cure his infatuation, and give him a proper idea of the sentiments he had imbibed. The conversation then took a more general turn, till it was time for them to adjourn to Mr. Cameron's; where, in addition to the party, they found a Mr. Wilmot, of whom it will be necessary to speak more fully.
He was a man of a mild and timid character, and reserved manners, but of inflexible obstinacy. Having lived many years without forming any political opinion, and spending the greatest part of his time in the country, he was thought a very proper object to work upon by a Mr. Davenport, who occasionally resided in his neighbourhood, and who was himself crafty to a degree scarcely credible. Having nothing to lose, and depending solely on his patrons for subsistence, he of course followed them in their adherence to the party formed in favour of the French Revolution, and was by them deputed to gain as many votaries as possible to their side. He therefore attacked Mr. Wilmot, who easily yielded to the first impression; but that once fixed on his mind, nothing was able to erase it, and he became a firm though not a violent republican; and in every other part of his character was a very amiable man and useful member of society. As he sat during dinner next to Sir George, their sentiments were soon made known to each other, and they became mutually pleased. Mr. Cameron, Mr. Mitford, and Mr. Warbourne, were evidently on the other side; but, finding their arguments availed not, and fearing a quarrel might ensue, they turned the conversation to the occurrences of the morning.
Mr. Wilmot's curiosity was excited and soon gratified by our hero, who related, with much humour, all that had happened to him in consequence of his accepting Mr. Goldney's invitation. Mr. Wilmot replied, "It was very unfortunate for him, that Sir George had been so ill-used by a new acquaintance, as he feared it would deter him from accepting his offered friendship." Our hero answered, "By no means: that meeting Mr. Wilmot in such a circle was a sufficient introduction; and in future he meant to avoid all appearance of mystery himself, by openly acknowledging his title as well as name; since his accidentally meeting Mr. Warbourne convinced him it was a vain hope to conceal himself, although he should be one of the first to relinquish voluntarily a distinction which was merely a nominal one." Mr. Wilmot applauded his resolution, and then asked if he would accompany him to his house, to afford him an opportunity of cultivating an acquaintance from which he hoped to derive so much pleasure. After some hesitation our hero assented, and promised to attend him the next day. Mr. Warbourne, in an accent of reproach, reminded him that he had refused him a similar request; but Sir George, though with some confusion, excused himself by saying, "his visit to Mr. Wilmot would, he hoped, facilitate a plan he had so much at heart, and therefore trusted his friend would pardon his apparent incivility." Mr. Warbourne only answered by shaking his head; and the gentlemen soon after parted, as the latter had some business with Mr. Mitford in which the Justice was also concerned; and Mr. Wilmot returned to the family he was with.
Our hero was of course obliged to retire to his inn, which he did with a heart exhilarated by the latter occurrences of the day, as he exulted in having at length found a character similar to his own, from whom he might expect advice and assistance, and from whom he could fear no danger. He knew not whether most to pity or despise Mr. Goldney for the extreme folly and impropriety of his conduct, and rejoiced that his new friend Mr. Wilmot had rescued from undeserved opprobrium the principles by which he was actuated; since it proved, in spite of Mr. Warbourne's hint, that it was not owing to them Mr. Thornton had been so unfortunate, or Mr. Goldney so violent, but from evident faults in their hearts or heads; and this consideration wholly reconciled him to his late formed plan, respecting which he had begun to waver in the morning: but now in his breast,
Fear, discontent, solicitude, give place,
And hope and courage brighten in their stead:
While on his kindling soul their vital beams were shed.
CHAP. IV.
WHILST our hero waited for his supper, he amused himself by walking up and down the room, and looking at the prints by which it was adorned; when a folded paper caught his eye, lying under one of the chairs. He took it up; and, observing it had no address, opened it, and read as follows:
"With respect to his person, he was a thin and spare man; which was the more extraordinary, as he loved good eating, and had a remarkable appetite. I ought, however, to add, he was not nice in his diet, as a shoulder of mutton with onion sauce was his peculiar favourite; as he preferred it to a haunch of venison: yet I have been told he would sometimes quit that for a boiled pig's face, which, I once heard him say, was, with greens, the greatest of all dainties— a shoulder of mutton only excepted. He had the neatest hand at slicing a cucumber I ever met with, and was fond of the employment— which was the more disinterested, as he never touched it himself; and on these occasions used to say with a hearty laugh, he would as soon eat so much ice with pepper and vinegar.
"He did not love riding on horseback, but would walk, when his business permitted it, several miles a day; and, what was extremely odd, he always chose the turnpike road, whether winter or summer, preferring either dust or mire to green fields and shady lanes. When his son was old enough to accompany him in these rambles, they generally parted at the end of the town, the lad crossing a stile into the meadows, where he indulged the first efforts of a genius since so conspicuous to the whole world. Here the beauties of nature first engaged his attention; the song of the linnet, the verdure of the grass, and the variety of wild flowers he occasionally met with, were by turns the subject of his early muse. I have still by me some of these juvenile compositions, which would not disgrace his latter productions; but a natural fear of his father, who was of a stern inflexible character, prevented him from shewing these effusions of fancy at home: but to me he constantly communicated them; and being a few years his senior, he readily relied upon my superior judgment, which was always proved by my approbation. This formed a perfect intimacy between us; and I believe I may say without vanity, it is owing to my encouragement that the world has been since favoured with the works of this wonderful genius. His mother was a woman of no very marked character, but good-humoured to a degree, and as proud of her darling boy; though she was no great reader indeed, for, excepting a sermon on a Sunday, she never read any thing but news-papers and magazines: but she wrote a very decent hand, understood accounts particularly well, and excelled with her needle. To sum up her talents in one word, she was a notable wife and a kind mother.
"The following anecdote. I had from her own mouth, which sufficiently proves the exquisite discernment of him whose life I am about to relate. One evening after a walk in the fields, he came home and wrote down an ode he had just composed on a bramble—a barren subject it is true, but what is there a great genius cannot effect? He then gave it to his mother to read aloud just before supper: and whether he did not point it properly, or that she did not very well understand her stops, I cannot take upon me to decide: however it was, she made absolute nonsense of one verse; which so enraged the young Apollo, that, in the agony of literary mortification, he dashed his hand on the table; broke two plates, the splinters of which fell into a dish of minced veal and a half apple pye that the servant had placed on the table; and cut the fourth finger of his right hand in such a manner, that perhaps many who only knew him in the latter part of his life may have seen the scar, which he always considered as a mark of literary glory, and contemplated with that pleasure a hero experiences when he views the mark of a bullet gained in the fields of victory.
"To return: His mother was much shocked at the loss of her supper and the destruction of her plates; but his father, who now for the first time felt the warm glow of paternal tenderness that reflected from the bright lustre of his son's expanding genius, caught him to his breast, and exclaimed, 'Oh my noble boy!'
"There are some ill-natured people to whom I have related this circumstance, who do not scruple to aver, the father's approbation was in mere contradiction to his wife, because she was angry: but if so, which nobody can ascertain, he had some reason for it, as I have heard it hinted: he wished that evening for a hot pork steak for his supper, but she insisted that the cold veal should be minced, as it would not keep till the next day. To be sure, in this respect she shewed her prudence, as their income was limited, and required much oeconomy: but my own decided opinion is, that the father's transport was wholly unconnected with this circumstance, and arose merely from surprise and pleasure at this first proof he had received of the talents of his son."
Here the paper ended; and our hero, though wholly at a loss to guess the purport, was much amused by its contents; but, unable to form any opinion of its intention, he folded and laid it on the table. The waiter, now entering with his supper, told him a gentleman who had been in that room the preceding day begged to be admitted for a few moments, to look for a paper of consequence he had lost. Sir George, considering that he had perused as of no possible consequence, feared his search would be fruitless, but desired he would walk in; and on his entrance, taking it from the table, enquired with his usual courtesy if that was what he meant. The stranger acknowledged it immediately, and, giving him a profusion of thanks, prepared slowly to quit the room; at the same time casting many an enamoured glance at the roast fowl and egg sauce which were smoking on the board. He was rather a meagre than a thin looking man; and our hero, fancying he appeared hungry, addressed him with infinite benevolence. "Perhaps, Sir, you will do me the hono
r of partaking my little repast, which, as I am now alone, will be otherwise an unsocial meal? I shall be really glad of your company."
The stranger waited not to be asked twice; but, advancing with a low bow, laid down his hat, and took a place at the table. Very little conversation passed during supper; the gentleman was otherwise employed; and Sir George, observing he ate as if he had seen no meat for many days, said with a smile, "one fowl was not enough for two people," (though he had himself only taken a wing) and ordered the waiter to bring up some veal cutlets or a beef steak, asking the stranger which he preferred; and he replying, a beef steak if agreeable to Sir George, the man left the room, and soon returned with it. This lasted very little longer than the fowl; and our hero thought, if he had not obtained an agreeable companion, he had certainly done an act of charity, as it was evident his guest was extremely hungry. When the table was cleared, which was not till the dishes were emptied, and the wine set on it, he told our hero he had conferred an unreturnable obligation on hi
. Sir George with much surprise
nquired in what way. Had he spoken the whole truth, he would have acknowledged the supper as well as the restoring him his lost paper; but, though at that moment he probably felt the former more sensibly, he only mentioned the latter; adding that Sir George had behaved with the most disinterested generosity, as, had it fallen into any other person's hands, they might have used it to his disgrace and their own advantage.
Sir George with difficulty concealed a smile at this speech, not conceiving of what use it could possibly be to any one; but politely replied, "As it could be of no service to him, there was little merit in restoring it to the owner, to whom it might be of consequence: but pray, Sir," added he, "may I take the liberty of requesting to know what it means?"
The other, drawing his chair to the fire, and taking up the bumper which was placed before him, answered in a half whisper: "Why, Sir, I'll tell you as a great secret; but first suffer me to ask if you have copied it."
"Oh no indeed," cried our hero, laughing at the very idea.
"Yes, Sir—I thought you were a man of too much honour; now you shall know all. In the younger part of my life, I was very intimate with a lad who is now a great man as well as a great genius: but he has forgotten me, Sir, entirely, though, as I said in this paper, I was the first person who even thought of encouraging his talents: but ingratitude, Sir, is the vice of the age; and I cannot expect to avoid the evils which fall indiscriminately on all mankind: and so, Sir, as I am not very rich, indeed (for I may as well tell the truth) I have but little to depend on, I have been thinking, as my former friend will not give me any money, how to make money of him; and, to effect this, I have collected all I can remember of him in his youth, and all I have heard of his maturity, to form materials for his life, which I will publish at his death, and doubt not but I shall make a pretty good sum of it. The work is already in great forwardness."
"He is far advanced in life, then, I presume?" said our hero.
"Oh no, Sir, a few years my junior."
"In ill health, then?"
"By no means: he is as hearty as I am."
"How then," rejoined Sir George, scarcely able to preserve his gravity, "are you sure you shall have an opportunity of publishing it?"
"Oh, Sir, of that I must take my chance; but, if not, I shall leave it to my heirs. It will be a jointure for my wife, an estate to my eldest son, it will portion out my girls, and apprentice my younger boys."
"You have great dependance on it," cried Sir George; "but for what purpose have you introduced this gentleman's father and mother?"
"Why, Sir, do you not know that when a man of genius has left this world, all those who remain in it are anxious not only to be acquainted with what he has done himself, but to hear of his father, his grandfather, and his great grandfather: and if one historian gives an epitome of their lives, another will take up the pen and relate it in full: and if fifty authors were to write the same life, they would all be read, because every person is supposed to relate different anecdotes; and it was for this reason, Sir, I was so apprehensive lest that invaluable and original anecdote of the broken plates should fall into the hands of any other author; but I presume, Sir, you do not write, by your appearance?"
"No, really I do not," replied Sir George smiling: "But pray tell me, for I am quite unacquainted with these sort of things, if this is the beginning of your work."
"No, Sir, it is the fifth chapter: if you please, I will to-morrow wait on you with the other four, and perhaps you may not object to honouring me with your name as a subscriber."
Sir George had not the least wish to accept this kind offer, yet he would not refuse the request; and replied: "I leave this place early in the morning; therefore shall not at present have time to attend to it; but, that I may in future profit by a work of equal utility and erudition, I shall be glad if you will set down my name. Pray what is the subscription?"
The author with some hesitation answered: "I do not exactly know till the book is finished, but I think it cannot be less than a guinea."
Our hero, whilst untying his purse, observed, "it must take some time to write a book of that size and consequence."
"Oh, Sir," returned the other, "I mean to have it all ready to send to the press, the moment it is in my power; for, were I to delay it, I doubt not but half a dozen garret writers would forestall me."
"That would be a pity indeed," cried Sir George, giving him a couple of guineas, and desiring he would put him down for two sets.
The author in the humblest manner returned the most unbounded thanks for this goodness; and, on hearing his name, exclaimed as in a transport of joy, "Sir George Warrington! Oh, good Sir, that name will secure my book a favourable reception from the world, and an honourable list of subscribers: for who that sees Sir George Warrington at the head of it—the patron of the arts and sciences, the defender of injured merit, the support of literature—will refuse to add his own?"
This flattery was by far too gross for our hero. Conscious how little he deserved it, it appeared almost like a reproof; and, looking sternly at the affrighted author, he replied, "No more of this, Sir, if you please; I detest flattery at all times; but now, when I am convinced you never heard the name of Warrington till this moment, it disgusts as well as displeases me."
The man looked terrified at this unexpected check; and stammering out some apology for having mistaken him, Sir George felt his natural good humour return with his pity, and, fearing he had been too rough, again addressed him:
"As it may yet be some years before you can possibly publish the book in question, why do you not try your genius in some other way in the mean time?"
"Why yes, Sir, so I intend: I have now a volume of essays at the book-seller's; but he does not give me much encouragement. Few people, Sir, read essays, I am afraid."
"Well then, novels I am told are in high repute."
"Yes, Sir, very high indeed; but, Sir, the trade is overstocked; there are now as many novel writers as novel readers; old ladies, young ladies, every body indeed, gentle and simple, as people say, write novels now. I wish Parliament would take it into consideration, and forbid the rich from engaging in it to the destruction of the poor."
"Why, surely you would not check the efforts of genius," returned Sir George, "be it in what line of life it may? No: rather let us stop the pens of those who waste their own time in writing, and their fellow creatures' in reading, their miserable productions, or those who, by painting vice and folly in their most gaudy colours, allure the innocent and seduce the unwary."
"Why yes, Sir, you are quite right, to be sure," cried the author; "I wish with all my heart it was so." And now having finished his bottle, and fearing a more minute criticism on the part of our hero, he rose up, and, repeating his thanks for all favours, took leave with a low bow.
Sir George had been much diverted by the conversation of his new acquaintance, who had given him an insight into things unknown before, as this was the first time he had ever been in company with an author. He remained for some time meditating on what had passed, yet still at a loss to comprehend of what use it could be to the world, to know that the father of any great genius preferred roast shoulder of mutton and pig's face to a haunch of venison. Not in the least able to reconcile this with his ideas of real knowledge, he retired to rest, resolving to perplex himself no farther with a problem apparently more difficult to solve than any one in Euclid.
CHAP. V.
ON rising the next morning, he recollected it was Sunday; and, having always made it a point never to travel on that day, determined not to sully his first entrance into life by violating an established principle; but resolved to send an excuse to Mr. Wilmot, and promise to follow him the succeeding day. But this trouble he was saved by the entrance of a waiter, who brought an apology from that gentleman for not attending him immediately, but that he was unexpectedly detained till the next morning, when he should be happy to accompany him to Violet Hill, the name of his place. Our hero, perfectly well satisfied with his new arrangement, sent an answer expressing that it would be still more agreeable to him; and then, having taken his breakfast, set out for church.
Those who have lived in a country town know very well, that a handsome and elegant young stranger is the object of universal attention; and various were the conjectures his appearance in this place gave rise to: but, when he was seen there again in the afternoon by two or three old ladies, it was a received opinion he went for no good; and, in some of their Sunday evening assemblies, it was debated what could induce him to go to church, at a time when only the lower classes of people, and a few superannuated beings like themselves, ever frequented it.—"I never knew a young man of fashion," cries one, "go to church only to say his prayers." "No no," rejoined another, "depend upon it, there was some better reason; he went to look at some pretty girl he had seen in the morning; a lady's maid or a tradesman's daughter." "I believe you are right," exclaimed a third; "for, now I think on't, he sat in a pew very near Tim Jenkins the shoemaker's; and I am pretty sure Sukey Jenkins was in the seat, and I saw him peep that way every now and then."
"I rather think," replied the first, "'twas Mrs. Bromfield's maid Grace, who was on the other side of the aisle."
Whilst all these opinions were forming at K—, our hero was not less perplexed to find out why the church was less full in the afternoon than the morning; for never before having been six days together absent from Warrington, where Mr. Thomson always preached to as numerous a congregation as the village afforded, he was yet to learn, that to pray in an afternoon was equally unfashionable and unnecessary; for that going to church more than once on a Sunday was a work of super-erogation, and consequently inconsistent with our religion. He was himself the simple child of nature, and had been taught both by Mr. Thomson and his father, and the former had particularly enforced it, that a constant attendance on public service was a very principal duty of religion; and he never forgot the precepts once instilled into him. Besides, as the dinner hour at Warrington Castle on a Sunday was always regulated by Mr. Thomson, who, indeed, generally partook of it, he had no idea that people of demi-fashion in a country town considered it a reflection on their dignity, to be seen at church at an hour when they ought to be at table, as they must incur the disgrace of being supposed to dine at the same time with their more humble neighbours.
Not able to settle this point to his own satisfaction, our hero walked slowly to his inn; and, it being too late to ramble about the town as he had done in the morning, he employed himself till the tea was brought up in recapitulating the events of the week, which had given him more knowledge of the world than he had ever before acquired. The variety of characters he had seen in the Thornton and Goldney families amused him on the recollection; but the idea of Louisa inspired him with love and hope; and he could have dwelt on her image for ever. Lost in a thousand gay reveries and pleasing day dreams, he was disturbed by the entrance of the waiter with the tea; and, unable to recover the same train of thought, he sat down pensive and melancholy to his solitary table. When he had finished, he asked the man if his master could lend him a book for the evening. He replied, "he would enquire;" and soon returned with one of those seditious, yet dangerous because plausible, publications with which the press at this period groaned. This suited his taste, completely engaged his attention, and again renewed all the heroism of his breast, which the gentler attacks of love had for a few minutes suppressed, but not subdued. He only finished it when it was time to retire to rest; and, on laying it down, resolved to stay no longer at Mr. Wilmot's than would be necessary to form some plan for his future conduct.
The next morning that gentleman summoned him to perform his promise; and they set out at an early hour, travelling many miles across the country, yet in a direction that brought them towards London, from whence Violet Hill was distant only thirty miles. At the close of day they arrived, and our hero met with a very polite reception from all the family; and, for the first time in his life, found himself under the roof with four ladies, of whom it will be necessary to give a particular description.
Mrs. Wilmot was a woman of a very peculiar kind: she had no character at all: though this assertion o
mine is in direct opposition to that line of Pope which declares it to be the fate of most women: but this I deny; nor will any of my readers contradict me. Let them recollect whether, among their own acquaintance, the generality of the fair sex do not belong to some of the following classes: the gay, the witty, the learned, the pedantic, the reserved, the capricious, the extravagant, the covetous, the vain, the haughty, the humble, or the fantastic. But Mrs. Wilmot had a claim to none of these characteristics: she was equally free from virtues and from vices; the most extreme and unconquerable indolence was the only prominent feature of her mind. However, as, by a sort of mechanical management, without much exertion, she contrived to preside in the family and to regulate it without extravagance, Mr. Wilmot was very well contented. He knew she did not save so much as the wives of some of his acquaintance, but then he was well assured she did not spend; and, on an average, he thought himself more fortunate than many of his friends whose ladies decorated their own persons with what they spared from the house and table. But the most unpardonable effect of her negligence was, the little pains she took to adorn her daughters and set them forward in the world. Unlike all mothers, she never consulted their persons or their appearance in the pattern of a new gown; was never solicitous to chaperon them to public places, or contrive schemes to draw in young men to dance with them; never was anxious to invite gentlemen of fortune to their house, and then entertain them with the superior merit of her children, saying, "what a good wife the eldest would make! and how well she understood the oeconomy of a family! hinting that the Miss Beechcrofts and the Miss Anneslys knew nothing but the fashions: that the youngest was such a mild-tempered creature, she must never marry unless she met with a man as amiable as herself; and that the second was, in any kind of illness, the best nurse imaginable."
It is remarkable, that, when mothers are thus tacitly recommending their daughters, they dwell chiefly on their mild and prudent perfections, seldom speaking of their wit, vivacity, talents, or accomplishments. The reason is obvious: they are not always acquainted with the taste of those they are addressing, and are conscious that every man wishes for a sweet-tempered and prudent companion in his weary and often turbulent pilgrimage through life; and that many fear superior talents, keen wit, and unbounded vivacity—knowing how frequently they lead to great inconveniencies, particularly if not blessed with the same advantages themselves. The Miss Wilmots, observing their mother's inactivity in this respect (which hurt them the more sensibly as they saw none of their female acquaintance labouring under the same misfortune), determined to act for themselves, and perhaps had succeeded better than most of their young friends.
Myrtilla, the eldest—Here let me digress a moment from this part of my history to inform my readers, that Mr. Wilmot, when first married, had an aunt who was deeply read in pastoral romance, and fondly attached to him. She therefore purchased the house and grounds where he now lived, and presented it to him on condition that it was called Violet Hill. Of course he made no objection to the terms; but gladly took possession of a place, which, with the lands around it, was worth at least five hundred a year. She also promised to leave a considerable sum to all his children who were named according to her fancy; and assenting as willingly to this, his three girls (for he had no son) were called Myrtilla, Rosetta, and Fidelia: and on the old lady's death they found themselves entitled to four thousand pounds each.
To return to Miss Wilmot:—She was every thing her name expressed: as her good sense, her cheerful and sweet disposition, proved she would be, like an evergreen, always loved, always admired, even in the winter of her existence; whilst her fair and florid complexion, dimpled cheeks, blue eyes, and light brown hair, made every one who saw her pronounce her at present a myrtle in full bloom; and by that epithet she was often toasted in her native county, where her merits were as well known as her beauty.
Myrtilla had been for many months attached to a young officer, who well deserved her regard. In fact she was engaged to him, though she had not yet made it known to any of her family. He was at this time many miles distant from Violet Hill; but, relying on his constancy, she had none of those tender jealous apprehensions which often disturb the tranquillity of young ladies when absent from their soul's delight. On the contrary, she was remarkably cheerful; from a conviction that her own heart was well bestowed, and that she possessed one in return worthy her truest affection.
Rosetta, or Rose as she was usually called, was of a mind and character totally the reverse of Miss Wilmot's. In her person she was much superior, as her figure was fine and her face uncommonly beautiful; her eyes black and sparkling; her complexion a clear brunette, with a bloom that by her lovers was often said to exceed the blushes of her vegetable namesakes: and this was as little of an hyperbole as possible: but, alas! like them she had only her bloom to depend on, having few mental attractions and few real virtues. In fact, she was a complete woman of the world, who doted on dissipation, courted admiration, loved herself extremely, and cared for no one else. Such was her rage for unbounded triumph, that, had she led the world in chains, like Alexander, she would have sat down and wept there were no more worlds to conquer. In such a case, I believe she would have gladly mounted the griffin horse behind Astolpho, when he visited the moon: but not, like that hero, to restore the wits of her acquaintance, who had proved their folly by their extreme attachment to her; rather to steal those of the inhabitants of the lunar sphere, if they were vulnerable to such mortal weapons as sparkling eyes, white teeth, and coral lips.
Fidelia, the youngest girl, resembled neither of her sisters. With much of the romance of her great aunt, she had some of the indolence of her mother; and, though generally so opposite, had contrived to blend these qualities in her own character. She knew it required more exertion to be a woman of fashion than she loved, and was also sensible that she had fewer personal attractions than either Myrtilla or Rosetta, and consequently would shine less in the great world. Convinced of this, she affected simplicity —loved the country—courted solitude—invoked the zephyrs—strolled for hours in woods and shades with a volume of poems in her hand— listened to the long of the nightingale or the rushing of the cascades— rambled among ruins—explored caves—cherished the young birds— cultivated the garden—and was alternately a florist, a botanist, and a naturalist.
Her dress was always suited to her ideas and avocations: white jackets, straw hats tied under her chin with rose-coloured or blue ribbons, were her principal decorations; and she was well aware that this style of dress suited her person better than any other, for her complexion was rather white than fair, her eyes small light grey, and her hair, which she wore in ringlets without powder, was rather yellow than flaxen: but as her features were tolerable, the extreme simplicity of her dress and the apparent languor of her countenance gave her an interesting appearance, which seldom failed to please; but as, like Mrs. Cornelia Lizard in the Guardian, she thought even a shady grove or a meandering stream could be improved by the presence of a Corydon, the introduction of our hero gave her an object of attention as well as her sister Rosetta, who at first sight marked him for her own; and, learning he was a Baronet of considerable and independent fortune, began to think it was not impossible but she might in his favour resign that liberty she had so fondly cherished. Miss Wilmot was glad of his arrival as a pleasant addition to their family-circle, and Fidelia resolved to steal into his heart unperceived: indeed, had she done so, it might have been totally without his knowledge. This young lady was as proud of her christian name as if it stamped on her heart the virtue it expressed; for faithfulness is the quintessence of a heroine of romance; and she piqued herself on it not a little; though frequently mortified when her sisters were addressed by the names of Myrtle and Rose, when she was only distinguished by that of Miss Fiddy, as from custom she was always called by her father and mother, as well as the servants of the family.
CHAP. VI.
OUR hero had been only a few days an inhabitant of Violet Hill, when his extreme anxiety to learn some intelligence of the fair Louisa determined him to go to London; but, on mentioning it at dinner, it was so strongly opposed by the whole family that he found himself obliged to yield; Mr. Wilmot having suggested to him that he might easily send for the letter as well as his portmanteau, both of which were directed to the — coffee-house; and in consequence of his following this plan, they arrived in safety the following day. He was walking with Mr. Wilmot in the park, but, happening to return alone, was struck with surprise at hearing a violent debate among the ladies: not choosing to retreat lest it should be imagined he had listened, he opened the door instantly, and saw Miss Wilmot with a letter in her hand, which she held high as if to preserve it from inspection. Rosetta and Fidelia walked towards the window in evident confusion; but Myrtilla, recovering instant composure, addressed Sir George with a good-humoured frankness, calculated to take away all suspicion that she had seriously quarrelled with her sisters— which was really the case.—"Oh!" cried she, "I am glad you are come, to secure your own property. Here is the precious long-expected letter, which these idle girls would have taken from me to see if the direction was in a female hand; for they imagine nothing but an attachment could have made you so anxious for its arrival." The young ladies, relieved by their sister's speech, now resumed their seats; and Sir George, taking the letter, replied gallantly, "he was much flattered by their curiosity, which he would immediately gratify:" then breaking the seal, he shewed them the signature was William Thomson. They attempted to laugh it off; but the extreme agitation of his countenance whilst he perused the contents strengthened their suspicions, which the name of Thomson had not lessened; as in fact they had all seen the direction, and were well aware it was from a gentleman; but, imagining it concerned a lady, had attempted to hold it open, and peruse it in part: but Myrtilla, whose integrity would have scorned such a step even if she had been interested in it, immediately prevented them; and it was this which had occasioned the high words our hero had overheard, though on his abrupt entrance she gave it a more favourable turn, and treated it as a mere jest, and as such Sir George regarded it.
When Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot entered the room, the former, observing he was much agitated, enquired the cause, adding, "he hoped the letter had brought him no bad news." Not wishing to make it a secret in a family whose kindness and hospitality had induced him to regard them as old friends, he related in a few words his accidental meeting with Miss Moreland, added a short sketch of her history, and then gave to Mr. Wilmot the letter he had just received, who read aloud as follows:
MY DEAR SIR GEORGE,
I AM much surprised and concerned at the contents of your letter brought me by the Bellingham carrier this morning: by the date of it, I think I ought to have received that of which Miss Moreland is the bearer some days since; but no lady of that description has appeared in our village, and, as I have been confined to the house for this week past, with a slight attack of the gout, I could not have missed her. I grieve to wound your kind and generous heart by the idea I have taken up; yet I must inform you, I fear she was an impostor, who dressed up a romantic tale to interest your feelings, and then availed herself of your bounty; for what could detain her so long upon the road, stranger as she is in this country? if indeed she is a stranger. I will not trifle longer with your impatience by detaining this another post, but write again in a few days, if I should gain any intelligence of the fair Louisa; to whom, if she arrives, we will pay every possible attention. My wife joins me in every ardent and good wish for your safety. I remain, my dear young friend,
Ever tenderly yours, WILLIAM THOMSON.
Various were the comments on this letter. Mrs. Wilmot said "she did not know what to think," because in fact she gave herself no concern about it. Mr. Wilmot expressed his fears that "Mr. Thomson's ideas were too well founded." The two younger girls joined very warmly in his opinion, and declared they had not the lead doubt of her being an impostor, and that such things were now so common as scarcely to afford a moment's wonder. Myrtilla opposed them earnestly, saying, "a thousand accidents might have prevented her immediate arrival, and at least they ought to suspend their judgment till better convinced of her unworthiness." Sir George, in his heart and with his eyes, thanked her for her candour, and expressed his own sentiments similar to hers. Rosetta gave her head a toss; Fidelia hung hers down, heaved a deep sigh, and appeared to stifle her rising emotion; but this little gentle artifice was wholly lost upon Sir George, who now admired Myrtilla more than he had ever done before, though, from the moment he entered the house, she was his favourite: and at this instant he was contemplating her fair and open countenance with a degree of pleasure that might have ended in love, had not the still more beautiful Louisa taken her station in the centre of his heart, from which neither his own doubt
, Rosetta's ill-natured suspicions, nor Fidelia's pretended passion, had the power to remove her. Sir George, finding only Myrtilla on his side, dropped the subject, and soon after quitted the room to write to his old friend, rejoicing, as he expected to hear again, that he had taken the precaution to send his present address to the coffee-house, with a request that all letters might be immediately forwarded to him. And the next morning brought him another from the good Vicar, containing only a few lines, to acquaint him "Miss Moreland was just arrived at Warrington, and that whilst she was laid down to recover from the fatigue of her journey, he had seized the pen to apologize for his unjust suspicions. He added she had been detained by a severe illness; but that Sir George should not be uneasy, as her countenance retained no trace of indisposition. He concluded by assuring him that every possible attention and respect should be paid to her both by himself and Mrs. Thomson."
Our hero immediately communicated the contents of this letter to the family. Myrtilla received the intelligence with pleasure; her sisters with infinite mortification, though they endeavoured to conceal it by declaring "they were extremely happy that the poor young lady was safely arrived at Warrington."
The following day Violet Hill was enlivened by a new guest—the Mr. Davenport who has been already mentioned. Mr. Wilmot introduced him to Sir George with particular satisfaction, conscious from the similarity of their sentiments they would esteem each other; for Mr. Wilmot, who was a man of plain rather than shrewd understanding, saw nothing in his insidious friend but a warmth of heart that led him to act in a right cause for the good of his country and the universal benefit of mankind.
Mr. Davenport immediately discovered in our hero that openness of temper, that frankness of heart, and generosity of spirit, which rendered him a considerable acquisition to their party—and a simplicity of character that he thought would render it easy for them to lead him to their own purposes: at the same time observed he acted from principle and right feeling; that his understanding was so good they must behave with caution, and his heart at once so pure and so benevolent, that, till he was too deeply intangled in their snares to extricate himself, they must carefully conceal their own motives, and as much as possible the horrible consequences which had ensued, and would still ensue, from the French Revolution. For this purpose, in their first political conversation, which took place when the ladies were withdrawn from dinner, Mr. Davenport persuaded our hero to give up his intended excursion to France: too sensible that at this period the waters of the Seine, as it was wittily expressed in one of the newspapers, had a powerful effect in curing the republican mania when it attacked Englishmen. His plea for this was, that it would be more proper and more useful to stay at home, and endeavour to emancipate his own countrymen from the degree of slavery which, even under the name of liberty, oppressed them; to reduce the taxes, and to equalise mankind.
Sir George, soon convinced by these arguments, at once gave up his plan; adding as an inducement, that "it would give real satisfaction to his old friend and tutor in the north, who had strongly opposed it." When Mr. Davenport heard this, he judged very prudently he should do well to keep our hero from any interview with this old gentleman, till his principles in their favour were fixed on a firmer basis; therefore, on his next conversation with Mr. Wilmot, he hinted the propriety of keeping their new acquaintance among them for a-while; who the more readily acceded to this scheme, from a conviction that the company of our hero was agreeable to his daughters, and not unpleasant to his wife, as it gave her no trouble. Female guests, unless quite young people, she always objected to, from the necessity of paying them those attentions which suited not her indolence: but Sir George was a real acquisition to the whole family; and when, at the instance of Mr. Davenport, Mr. Wilmot insisted on his promising to stay with them several weeks, he made no objection: he perceived he should not be idle in the cause he had undertaken; and the manner of living and the society he met with at Violet Hill were too well suited to his taste for him to wish to leave it.
CHAP. VII.
MR. Davenport now used every artifice, every machination, to complete the infatuation of our hero, and succeeded but too well: he relied on him with implicit confidence, followed his instructions, listened to his suggestions, and obeyed his dictates. Without an atom of extravagance or licentiousness in his own character, he drew for such incredible sums on his banker in London as made him liable to the imputation of both. These, his false friend continually told him, were for the benefit of his country, and they were placed in his hands without enquiry and without suspicion. If any new pernicious idea was to be inculcated, Mr. Davenport put it in the mouth of our hero, who incautiously spread such opinions as might have rendered him liable to a charge for high treason. And yet in all this time he fancied he was acting in the cause of virtue, and consequently of religion: for he yet knew no distinction; Mr. Davenport sedulously avoiding every thing that could open his eyes. In any public meeting, where these opinions were the subject of discourse, Mr. Davenport would desire the gentlemen to be cautious, for that his friend was very pious, and would take a sudden fright and run off if he suspected their party disclaimed all religion. All the bloody massacres which had happened in France were by him ascribed to a murderous banditti, and not the general sense of the people—committed by a lawless mob, not licensed by the real patriots. Alas! our hero had not yet considered the mob could never have been lawless but for the license of their superiors.
Thus was the mind of Sir George continually worked upon for some time, till Mr. Davenport, being suddenly called to London, left him at rest. He sometimes thought it was possible he might be acting wrong; but these qualms were soon checked by his friend, who, in the most alluring but false colours, had painted the universal advantages of a general reform. Miss Wilmot, who saw things in their true light, was grieved that her father and Sir George should take up a wrong cause; but, not knowing how to remedy it, lamented their infatuation in silence. Rosetta and Fidelia regretted it on another account, that our hero was now so constantly engaged as to afford them little opportunity for their meditated conquest. The absence of Mr. Davenport gave them all more leisure; but the tranquillity of Sir George was totally destroyed by the arrival of a letter from Mr. Thomson, which I will transcribe verbatim for my readers:
DEAR SIR GEORGE,
THE dislike I naturally feel to giving pain to any one, particularly those to whom I am united by the bands of friendship, has for some days prevented my writing, though convinced of the necessity of such a measure; but it can be no longer deferred, as Mrs. Thomson is really ill from her continued exertions, and I am myself far from well. The fact is, my dear friend, your protegée Miss Moreland is too young, too handsome, and too volatile, for our peace; and by far too great a charge for an old sedate couple, now declining in health and totally ignorant of the ways of the world. I dare believe it is only French manners, though in England we should call it levity, if not licentiousness. In short, her conduct is such as we can neither admire nor approve; therefore beg you will fix on some plan to relieve us from what we have long considered as a burthen. I will, if you impower me, look out for some place where she may board and lodge till she has determined on a scheme for her future subsistence; but of this she has at present no idea. I know not why I am so cautious; you desired my frank opinion of her, and, if I do not give my reasons, you will probably think I judge too severely of youthful follies. To the point— She came to us in a very miserable condition, entirely bare of clothes and money; the sum which you had given her she said she had spent in her illness, and was obliged to part with most of the former to defray her additional expences. At her desire therefore, as I had previously your leave, I gave her thirty pounds, which did not go far, as she spent it very injudiciously, not accepting my wife's advice, who wished her to lay it out in necessaries; but, instead of that, it all went for finery of which I scarcely know the name. She then demanded twenty pounds more: I hesitated, but at length obeyed, as you had not limited me. I thought to inform you of this, but considered, as she was actually in want of every thing, the sum was not so enormous. When properly equipped, she made frequent excursions to Bellingham, and introduced herself to every body there as your protegée, and was consequently noticed by all the town. She went to the assembly with the Ketterings, who have paid her great attention; and I sat up for her till two o'clock, at which time she returned in a postchaise with an officer who had been her partner during the evening. She asked him in, though at so unseasonable an hour, and ordered the maid, who was in waiting to warm her bed, to bring in supper, with as much effrontery as if she had been in her own house. This was complied with; and I brought out two bottles of wine. I could not leave them either in politeness or propriety; and the officer staid till he had finished the wine, of which, however, the lady had her due share. The next morning I ventured to remonstrate, and was answered by a toss of the head, and an assurance that she would not trouble me long, as in all probability Sir George would soon return, and she should then remove to the Castle. My dear young friend, I hope this is not true, for your sake. I should be sorry to see you so far deviate from those principles of rectitude you once gloried in, as to keep a mistress, openly in defiance of all morality: yet I should be still more concerned to see you united for life to such a woman as Miss Moreland, who, however infatuating she appeared to you, is I fear a very bad young creature. Indeed I do not wonder you were deceived, since for several days she seemed to us a very mild pretty-spoken young woman; but the mask is now thrown off. It is talked of all over Bellingham that you mean to marry her; and in consequence of these hints, thrown out by herself, she is much courted. Miss Kettering declares she is quite the woman of fashion, and as such imitates her in every thing. Miss Carruther, whose word I would much sooner take, as she has seen more of the world, says it may be foreign, but it is not English fashionable manners; and I believe she is right; yet she is very fond of her, and invites her frequently to her house. Indeed I have observed, though I cannot guess the reason, that lady is very fond of new acquaintance: but to proceed—
A few days since, I heard of Mr. Saxby's return, and came to the parsonage in great joy to inform Miss Moreland of it, thinking she would be glad to see her old friends James and Lucy; but she received my intelligence very coldly, though she coloured with surprise when first I told her, and soon after said "she must be very cautious of going out, as she was afraid of Mr. Saxby, whose wife was not jealous of him without good reason." I judged from this, there had been some impertinence in his conduct towards her, which she had not mentioned to you; at the same time wondered why she was so fearful, as I have seen several young gentlemen who have called on her at my house take liberties with her that I deemed extraordinary. However, in a few days she suddenly changed her resolution, and took a long walk, by herself as I thought; but Dick Atkins the clerk told me, "he met her with Mr. Saxby at the upper stile leading to the high field between your park and Barclay Manor, and since that she has been seen with him once or twice. I know he is a very gay libertine man, and therefore all this makes me very uneasy. She is going tomorrow to a ball, given at the Wood by Sir William Arlington on his taking possession of his estate. We are not to sit up for her, as she goes with Mrs. Kettering and will sleep there. My wife and I anticipate with pleasure one quiet and undisturbed evening, which we have not enjoyed since her arrival. Let me know your commands, my dear Sir George, in a few days at farthest, at least as soon as you can determine. In the mean time, believe me ever
Yours, WILLIAM THOMSON.
CHAP. VIII.
TO describe the emotion of Sir George as he read this is impossible. All the fair visions of love and joy that had so long floated in his brain were at once destroyed: all the bright illusions that had animated his mind were no more. Totally engrossed by the idea of his disappointment, and forgetting he might be laughed at for his credulity, or, if not forgetting, disregarding it, he went into the drawing-room to seek for that consolation so heart-soothing in the hour of distress, yet so seldom experienced. With that naïveté which his farther acquaintance with the world had not yet robbed him of, he read the letter to the family, begged their pity, and desired their advice; both of which he received in great abundance—at least it was the semblance of the first, from all but Myrtilla, who sincerely felt for him, judging of his heart by her own, and sensible how acutely he must feel the mortification of seeing his best hopes vanish like a shadow; for to her he had confessed, "he was as much attached to Miss Moreland as he could possibly be in so short a time." Advice she gave him none; observing he was in no present want of it. Mr. Wilmot shook his head and said, "it was a very strange affair." Mrs. Wilmot, yawning, echoed his opinion, and was silent. Rosetta exclaimed, "Miss Morela
d was the vilest wretch in the universe; and, if Sir George wished to act like a man of sense and spirit, he would inform his friend that he meant totally to withdraw his countenance from her, and desire she might be instantly turned out of doors, and stripped of all she had so dishonestly gained." Fidelia recommended a milder method. "Let her," said she, "be sent away from Warrington, but not destitute and pennyless; let her be brought back to the place from whence she was taken by you, and then she may follow her own inclinations."
Miss Wilmot now spoke with her usual animation. "Sir George, it is visible to us all, you have felt more than a common regard for Miss Moreland; that regard I should hope would exist no longer, since, from the account of a friend on whom you can rely, she appears undeserving of it: but as she has been guilty of no actual crime, therefore let us suspend our censures; and give me leave to add, should you entirely forsake her, if at any future time you should hear of her certain disgrace and inevitable ruin, you may be sorry for your rashness. Your fortune will allow you to part with a trifle; and, as you voluntarily offered her an aid she did not solicit, why do you not reply to Mr. Thomson, that you will pay any moderate sum to enable her to get an honest and independent livelihood, but that you never meant to support her in idleness and dissipation? If she accepts your offer, you know not how far the benefit may extend: if her pride induces her to decline it, you are not accountable for any of her actions; but Mr. Thomson may send her at once from his house, with a few guineas for her immediate relief."
Rosetta and Fidelia sneered at their sister's charitable oration, as they called it; but Sir George in the warmest terms thanked her for putting him in a method to acquit his conscience, and instantly wrote his letter. But as they were at some distance from the post town, they sent and received their letters only three times a week: the next was not post day; and Sir George, knowing it was of no immediate consequence, did not send a messenger on purpose. On the following, the man arrived from the town with the letters, who usually returned with theirs; but another from Mr. Thomson to our hero rendered his written answer useless, and he threw it into the fire.
MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,
I AM so shocked, so almost petrified by the events of the last two days, that I know not how to relate them to you with any degree of connection: yet write I must, to inform you that all determination on your part is unnecessary. Miss Moreland has spared me the trouble of forbidding her my house, by voluntarily quitting it. If this were all, how little cause should I have to regret her departure! But, alas! the worst is to come; and, if possible, I will give you a regular and just account of the whole terrible affair.
When I had sent off my last letter to you by the carrier (for I would not trust Louisa, though she offered to put it into the post-office at Bellingham herself), I went into the parlour, and found her ready to set out; and the chaise at that moment drove up to the door. She told me 'she must buy several things for her appearance that evening, as she wished not to disgrace your bounty,' and begged me to give her twenty pounds. The demand startled me; but recollecting your repeated orders, even since her arrival and since you knew of the first fifty pounds, to spare no expence for her accommodation, I did not know how to refuse; but fortunately having only a ten pound note by me, I gave her that, and promised her the remainder the next day. She seemed disconcerted, but said nothing; and I led her to the chaise, behind which I observed her largest travelling trunk. I pointed to it, and asked her, smiling, if she meant to play truant for any length of time. She coloured, and replied, 'No; but she had not yet fixed on what dress she should wear, and had therefore taken two or three; and, that they might not be pressed, had put them in a large portmanteau.' I thought this very probable; and she drove off, saying 'she should not return till the next day after dinner.' Of course I did not expect her till that time; but, the evening coming on without her appearing, I grew uneasy, though I scarcely knew why, as my wife said 'it was possible the Ketterings had prevailed on her to stay with them till the next morning.' This idea relieved my mind, and I went to bed, but could not sleep. I arose early, and taking my horse rode over to Bellingham, and stopped at Mr. Kettering's. The family were at breakfast, and I was instantly admitted; but, on my enquiring for Miss Moreland, their consternation was evident. I hastily demanded the cause, and was informed she had left them the night of the ball, under a pretence that I was to sit up for her. Her elopement was now clear to all parties; but, when I learned the atrocity of her preceding conduct, I was shocked beyond measure. Miss Kettering told me, 'on her arrival at their house, they set out together to call on Miss Carruther, to hold a little female council on the important subject of their dress; and found that lady unfortunately so ill with a swelled face, that she had given up all thoughts of going herself.' Louisa then lamented her own situation in pathetic terms, and, concealing the money she had from me, declared 'her own appearance would be so inferior to the rest of the party, she was half inclined to stay with her.' This Miss Carruther generously declined, and with infinite good-nature offered her the dress she meant to have worn herself, which was accepted without scruple by the mean-spirited girl. To this she added her watch and pearl pins; and Miss Kettering, to contribute towards it, desired she would wear the necklace and earrings lately sent her by an uncle in London, as she had another set which would better suit the rest of her dress. Miss Moreland refused nothing that was offered, and at the proper time, attired in her borrowed plumes, accompanied the Ketterings to Sir William Arlington's, where she had her due share of admiration. When they returned, she said 'she could not sleep with them, because I or Mrs. Thomson would wait for her;' but she desired to have her portmanteau fastened on to the carriage, as her morning gown was in it. Whilst this was about, Mrs. Kettering begged she would alight, hinting, 'as it was so late, it might be better to take off the watch, pins, &c. and leave with them;' but she replied—'No, she would not alter her dress till her dear old friends had seen her, and witnessed the kindness of Miss Carruther and Miss Kettering.' The latter, therefore, could not press it, lest it might imply a fear of her losing those ornaments she had supplied her with; and they parted. Her not returning the clothes the following day had surprised them all; but they had no doubt of hearing from her as on this morning; when my arrival so unfortunately convinced them she had taken an opportunity of leaving the country, laden with the spoils of her friends. I expressed my sincere concern at this information; and then, though too much time had elapsed to afford any hopes of overtaking her, I thought it best to go to the inn, and enquire of the postillion to what place he had conveyed the lady. The man replied—'She ordered him to drive to Warrington, but that about three miles from Bellingham they met another carriage with four horses, and only one gentleman in it. Some conversation passed between him and the lady, who then alighted and got into his chaise: the trunk was removed; and giving the man half a crown, she told him that gentleman would see her home; and he returned almost instantly, though he fancied, from the sound, that the other carriage took a different road from that which led to Warrington.
Finding I could gain no farther intelligence, I came back to Mr. Kettering's, who joined with me in believing she had made an appointment with some gentleman she had seen at the ball, though he could not guess whom, as several had paid her very particular attention. No part of her conduct, terrible as it has been throughout, shocks me so much as her dishonesty in robbing all her best friends and benefactors; for you do not yet know the whole. I was obliged to take an early leave of Mr. Kettering's family, because I expected some farmers to dinner; and, on entering my own house, was astonished at meeting my wife in the hall, with a countenance as pale as if she had anticipated all my intelligence. I enquired what was the matter, but she could not speak; and old Susan, running out of the kitchen, informed me that her mistress, on opening the chest of plate that stood in the common parlour, had missed several large spoons and other things, which induced her to look farther; and, up stairs in the store closet, also missed the large silver tankard given me by your father the day you were christened. The arms of Warrington and Milbanke quartered were engraved on it; and I valued it more as the gift of your family than on any other account, though, as an old-fashioned heavy piece of plate, its intrinsic worth was not trifling. I too soon guessed who had taken it; the information I had learnt at Bellingham made it too evident. My wife was less surprised than she would have been, if Susan had not told her 'she had several times seen Miss Moreland coming out of the store-room, where she knew she had no business,' and in pretty plain terms hinted to her that Louisa had concealed it. We now broke open the trunk she had left at home, but found little more than the clothes she came first in to Warrington, which are of no value. Her guilt is now too clear to be disputed; and, though I grieve to inform you of it, I think it necessary, as you may put us in a way to recover those things she has so unjustly taken. You had better apply to a good lawyer, who will tell you what measures must be followed; and in the mean time I will transmit to you a particular description of the watch, ear-rings, &c. The great tankard you would know; at all events, the arms would be a sufficient proof of that. I am so concerned and so harassed, that I scarcely know what I write, and must leave off. Dear Sir George, let me hear from you soon, and believe me truly,
Your sincere but afflicted friend, WILLIAM THOMSON.
P. S.
Since I finished my letter, I have been told that Mr. Saxby has left the country. If so, it is very probable that Louisa was his companion; and this may be some clue to assist your search.
CHAP. IX.
IT is easier to imagine than describe the emotions of our hero on perusing this letter. Shame, grief, remorse, disappointment, and mortification, alternately rose in his soul; and it was long ere he could recover a sufficient degree of composure to rejoin the family. They all, on his entering the room, anxiously enquired the cause of that distress so visible on his countenance. He could not reply; but, giving the letter to Mr. Wilmot, sat down in the window; whilst the young ladies crowded round their father to learn what new misfortune had arisen. Their curiosity was soon satisfied; and, without paying any regard to the feelings of our hero, Rosetta and Fidelia, with all the malignity of gratified revenge, reproached Myrtilla for her credulity, and plumed themselves on their own deeper penetration. Miss Wilmot with great calmness only replied, by repeating a maxim from Rochefoucault: "Those who are themselves incapable of great crimes are not ready to suspect others of them."
They coloured with anger at this tacit reproof, and said "they did not understand her; but supposed she meant to give Sir George an idea that her heart was as pure as an infant's, whilst theirs was all that was vile: but that perhaps, if the truth were known, some people had deeper reasons for their affected candour, though other people were condemned for their honest indignation and just abhorrence of vice."
This speech, kind and sisterly as it was, did not in the least confuse Myrtilla; for the fact was, she had early in their acquaintance given Sir George a hint of her predilection in favour of an absent lover, that the courtesy she seemed inclined to bestow on him, and the regard she already felt for his virtues, might not be misconstrued.
Our hero, concerned at the dispute which he feared would arise, endeavoured, but without success, to turn the conversation. Rosetta and Fidelia renewed their dark surmises and oblique hints, which Myrtilla bore with her usual patience; till Mr. Wilmot interfered, and insisted on peace being restored. This even a father's authority could not effect: but a truce was proclaimed; and Sir George took the opportunity of quitting the room. He retired to his chamber, and, strongly feeling the necessity of replying to Mr. Thomson, however unwilling he was to attempt it, sat down and wrote as follows:
DEAR SIR,
I AM more shocked and concerned than I know how to express at the contents of your two last letters, and am infinitely grieved at having been the means of disturbing your domestic comfort. How shall I ever repay your kindness to one who has proved so unworthy of it! I may restore your actual losses; but the obligation will ever be a weight on my mind, and the heavier weight as the object is so totally undeserving. But, my good friend, no colours are so glowing as those traced by the pencil of fancy when guided by the hand of inexperienced youth; and in the countenance of Miss Moreland I beheld all the virtues, and fondly hoped her eyes were the windows of her heart. Fancy led me astray still farther, and I painted scenes of future happiness where she was the principal figure: but this is all at an end; and I even blush for my infatuation, yet cannot so far conquer it as to bring her to public justice. Do not mention my folly, for I know she merits punishment: yet justice shall be done to all those she has injured. Send me a description of the watch, pearl-pins, necklace, and ear-rings: if I can regain them by any less violent means than public prosecution, I will; but, if nor, tell me their utmost value, and it shall be restored. As for yourself, the best piece of plate at Warrington Castle is yours. Indeed I will do any thing and every thing to repair my folly, for it has been weakness in the extreme. You will smile if I confess, but it is truth—that I have not yet brought my mind to consider the Miss Moreland who has behaved so basely at Warrington as the same lovely woman I beheld at the inn. In fact, to the former I have annexed a different idea, and fancy her a tall masculine creature, with a florid complexion and shewy features; whilst of the latter, elegant, gentle, and timid, I still retain a perfect recollection, and still seem to believe all the virtues inshrined in that lovely form I then too fondly imagined she possessed. But I will conquer these visionary dreams, and dwell on them no longer. Adieu, my kindest friend, and believe me most gratefully yours,
GEORGE WARRINGTON.
When our hero re-entered the parlour, the two younger girls were absent, and all was quietness. Mr. Wilmot then told him "they had been talking over the affair, and were unitedly of opinion that Miss Moreland, as she called herself, had been a complete impostor from the beginning, and had framed a plausible and pathetic tale to deceive the guileless and unwary. And now," continued he, "that she has gained all she can from the effects of your bounty, she is probably gone to some other part of the kingdom, to tell the same story and act the same part."
Sir George assented to this opinion, declaring "it reconciled him to her conduct, as the idea of her growing so suddenly depraved had hurt his mind more than he could express; since the amiable Louisa attending on the dying Abbess, and giving up every temporal advantage for her comfort and happiness, appeared a creature totally distinct from the vile interested wretch who deceived and betrayed her best friends."
"Yes," replied Miss Wilmot, "I think that is evident; but indeed, Sir George, you must lose her pretended virtues in her real baseness, or the first idea you formed of her will dwell on your mind, and render you miserable; for I now too plainly see you are in love with a shadow."
Sir George acknowledged the truth of this, and promised if possible to forget her. Miss Wilmot applauded his resolution, and then, to divert his attention, turned the conversation on indifferent subjects.
In the course of the evening, a letter was brought to our hero from Mr. Davenport, requesting he would come to him to London for a few days, as he wished to make him known to some of his friends. He at first, from the unusual depression of his spirits, resolved to refuse this request; but Mr. Wilmot, imagining change of scene would restore his mind to its wonted serenity, persuaded him not to decline it; and, acceding to these reasons, Sir George set out the next morning, and arrived in town at Mr. Davenport's lodgings to dinner.
CHAP. X.
DURING the fortnight of our hero's continuance in London, his mornings were devoted to Mr. Davenport, who introduced him to his friends, who were all of the democratic party; and who received Sir George Warrington as an auxiliary with peculiar satisfaction: but Mr. Davenport, aware of the strictness of his principles, gave them a caution not to avow those by which they were actuated, at least too many of them; and lest he should in their hours of conviviality discover what it was so much his interest to conceal, he avoided asking him to join their dinner parties, under a pretence that they were too dissipated for him to receive any pleasure from their general society. This Sir George was well convinced of, and not sorry for an excuse which afforded him an opportunity of seeing more of the amusements than he could have done if constantly engaged in private parties. He spent every evening at some public place, giving the preference to the theatres.
As his acquaintance was now chiefly confined to a set of people who, having only one point to gain, directed their views and their conversation solely to obtaining that end, he saw very little variety of character, and met with no adventures: and though this, from the above-mentioned circumstance, might be easily accounted for, he was surprised— hoping, in so large a city as London, to meet with some who might afford him as much pleasure in the recollection as Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, Mr. and Mrs. Goldney, and the poor author who had supped with him at the King's Arms: but nothing of the kind occurred, excepting that one morning stepping into an ironmonger's shop with his friend, who was commissioned to bespeak a register stove for a gentleman in the country, he saw an instance of economy scarcely to be credited. Whilst Mr. Davenport was giving his orders, our hero leaned pensively against the counter; and a lady alighting from a very elegant chaise, a curious conversation ensued between her and the foreman, which amused him particularly. The lady, who was newly settled in town, enquired if the brass plate she had ordered with the name, for her street-door, was finished. The man replied in the affirmative, and immediately produced it for her approbation. On looking at it, her countenance grew crimson with anger. "Did I not tell you," said she, "not to put the Reverend upon it—only plain Mr. Cardigan?"
"It was my master," replied the man, "you spoke to, Madam; and he only told us to get ready a handsome brass plate for the Reverend Mr. Cardigan; and we thought —"
"Your master is a fool then," interrupted she, "to be so absurd, when I gave him the reasons for it. Why, even the faculty say my poor dear Mr. Cardigan cannot live six months; and when he is gone, dear creature! what shall I do with the Reverend? No no, I'll have only Mr. Cardigan; and then when he is dead, I can have the S added to Mr. with little expence."
"But then, Madam, suppose, as the plate is now finished, you took it as it is. The Reverend will certainly look more respectable; and you can but have the other when the poor gentleman is actually gone."
"Don't tell me," cried the lady, "I will have no such thing: your master would then expect me to pay for both; but now, as it is only his fault, he must be answerable for this, for I will have another my own way."
The man bowed obedience, and the lady left the shop.
Sir George could not conceal his surprise at this extraordinary dialogue; but, advancing, enquired who the lady was? The man replied, not without a smile, "that she was the wife of a clergyman, who, though in ill-health, had a good private fortune, exclusive of his preferment which was considerable." Sir George was going to make an eulogium on her prudent forecast; but his friend, who had finished his business, now returned, and taking his arm they left the shop together. Our hero did not forget to relate the anecdote to Mr. Davenport, who laughed heartily at it; but added, "he had seen similar proofs of ridiculous economy, and in people who scrupled not throwing away hundreds in the pursuit of their pleasures or the gratification of their vices."
The night before our hero left town, he had passed the evening at the Haymarket theatre, and was just stepping into a hackney coach, when the screams of a female struck his ears from an adjacent carriage. Ever ready to succour the distressed, he bade the coachman drive to the end of the street, and wait for him there whilst he endeavoured to assist the lady. Making his way with some difficulty, he found the wheel of her chariot was locked with another; the shock had thrown the man from his box, and the horses were plunging with such violence, that there was every reason to fear he was materially injured. Whilst the surrounding multitude were endeavouring to disentangle him, our hero opened the carriage door, and, taking out the lady, who was almost lifeless with terror, bore her resolutely and safely through the crowd to the coach that waited his arrival. When seated in that, she recovered sufficiently to reply to Sir George, on his requesting to know her address: "Lord Milbanke's, Portman-square." The name struck him forcibly; but, concealing his emotions, he said nothing of his relationship, and began to imagine it might be a good opportunity of introducing himself to the brother of a parent who had been ever most tenderly regretted by him. The lady now expressed her deep sense of his polite attention, and Sir George in the usual complimentary style declared, "he thought himself infinitely happy in having rendered her any assistance." A few mutually civil speeches of this kind brought them to the house, when the lady, on enquiring if Lord Milbanke was at home, and being answered in the affirmative, desired our hero to walk up stairs, that she might have the pleasure of introducing him to her Lord. He instantly complied, and was announced by her Ladyship as a gentleman who had extricated her from a situation not merely disagreeable but dangerous.
Lord Milbanke, who was a man of fashionable manners and striking address, received our hero with the utmost politeness, and, having paid his acknowledgments, requested to be informed to whom he was so much obliged. Sir George, who at his first entrance with difficulty concealed his agitation, which the sight of his uncle and the striking resemblance he bore to his mother had excited, now found his embarrassment increase so much, from a doubt of his reception when he confessed his name, that he coloured and hesitated to a degree that might have given a suspicious mind reason to believe he had some motive for concealing it: but Lord Milbanke, too open-hearted himself to suspect another of duplicity without good cause, would not observe his chagrin; but, pouring out a glass of wine, and taking another himself, begged to have the honour of drinking our hero's health; who, reanimated by this instance of courtesy, re-assumed sufficient composure to reply:
"I scarcely, my Lord, know how to answer you, lest you should think me deficient both in duty and respect, in being indebted to an accident only for the pleasure I now experience in an introduction to one who has from relationship a claim to every attention from me, when I acknowledge my name is George Warrington."
Lord Milbanke's surprise was extreme, but his satisfaction was equal. He advanced, and, folding our hero in his arms, replied, "Do not, my dear nephew, apologize to me, who am myself only to blame. Your dear mother (and his eyes filled with tears) was my favourite sister; but I was taught to believe, on my return from the Continent, that Sir Thomas had forbidden her all intercourse with our family; and, engaged in constant dissipation, I enquired no farther. But since the thoughtlessness of youth has given way to more serious reflection, I have often lamented the distance between us, and that the unkind disposition of your father towards us prevented all friendly intercourse. On hearing of his death, I enquired for you of a gentleman in your neighbourhood who was then in town: the account he gave me was so different from the truth, that I blush at ever having credited it. He told me you was a mere country 'squire, devoted to field sports, and at once rough and unpolished: that you boasted of persisting in your father's political opinions, and inherited all his dislike to courtiers in general, and your mother's family in particular. This of course deterred me from seeking your acquaintance, as I fancied it would afford neither of us any satisfaction; but, convinced as I now am of my mistake, I rejoice in the fortunate event that has made us known to each other."
Sir George expressed equal pleasure, and regretted that, from his uncle's misconception of his character, they had so long been strangers. Yet feeling that he had deserved the description of his country neighbour, he coloured on the recollection, and continued: "Yet, my Lord, I know not, in fact, that I was misrepresented to you, since, till within a few months, my ideas, my hopes, and my pleasures, were all centred in the sports of the field. An accident then convinced me of the folly of placing my dependence on amusements which in the hours of sickness and solitude could afford me no relief; and I turned my mind to those studies I had so long neglected; and, when I recovered, resolved to leave my retirement, cultivate a more general acquaintance, and endeavour to gain some knowledge of men and manners. Indeed I had thought of going abroad; but the present distractions in France determined me to give up this scheme, at least for the present."
"You judged very prudently," replied Lord Milbanke; "and in all respects I applaud and approve your conduct. But where is the rusticity of manners I was taught to believe you possessed? Where the rough, unpolished country 'squire, who gloried in his abhorrence of refinement? Why, Sir George, you will do me credit as your uncle in the first circles in this kingdom, where I hope to have the honour of introducing you."
Our hero bowed his acknowledgments, but replied, "at present it would not be in his power to avail himself of the honour, as he had promised to return into the country the following day, but would certainly pay his respects to him again before he revisited Northumberland." Lord Milbanke accepted his excuses, but insisted on his staying with them when next he came to London—which our hero said he should do in a few weeks.
The supper was now brought in, and a more general conversation ensued, in which Lady Milbanke bore a part. She expressed infinite satisfaction at the reconciliation which had taken place through her means, and with much sweetness said, "she hoped Sir George would be their frequent guest;" and in this wish his Lordship sincerely joined. Our hero had now an opportunity of observing the countenances of his new-sound relations, and contemplated them with much pleasure. In Lord Milbanke he saw a striking family-resemblance to his revered mother; the same expression of sense and benevolence, with an air of blended dignity and fashion. But in Lady Milbanke there was a something which seemed to strike on the chords of his heart; in her eyes a vivacity chastened with modesty, in her cheeks the glow of health, and on her brow an expression of sentiment which seemed congenial to his own. She was not above five-and-thirty, and retained more of the bloom of youth than is usual at that period.
Sir George remained with them till a very late hour, and they parted with sincere regret; which however was lessened by his promise of returning to them as soon as possible. He did not see Mr. Davenport that night; but the next morning, when they got into the chaise, he informed him of the pleasant event of the preceding evening, imagining he would participate in his satisfaction: but he was mistaken. Mr. Davenport received the intelligence with much coldness, and was in fact sorry that our hero had found a relation in a man who was from principle as well as party an avowed enemy to the measures of himself and friends; and, in a very ill-humour which he could scarcely conceal, he set down our hero at Violet Hill, and, refusing Mr. Wilmot's entreaties to alight, proceeded to his own house to dinner.
CHAP. XI.
AS it is far from my intention to enter into a minute discussion of politics, but merely to shew the ill consequences arising from mistaken principles; instead of repeating all the arguments used by Mr. Davenport to mislead our hero, I shall only relate the motives by which he was actuated. He had been, on some occasion not worth mentioning, opposed with much warmth at a county meeting by a Mr. Annesley, a man of extensive property in the neighbourhood, who had also some share in a very considerable manufacture. For this reason he had been marked out by Mr. Davenport, as one who if possible should feel the first marks of his resentment, in the exertions made by him in his newly-taken-up character of a patriot; but, fearful of rendering himself obnoxious to the generality of his acquaintance, he contrived, with that deep artifice he was master of, to make Sir George his agent, and in fact had led him to do all he wished without appearing in it himself. He at first worked upon the feelings of our hero, by accompanying him to the hovels where the most worthless of the manufacturers resided, whose poverty was occasioned by their licentiousness; and represented their misery as caused by the avarice of their master, who, though himself in possession of every luxury of life, denied them the common necessaries. Sir George, not aware of the consequences, but alive to the impulse of humanity, incautiously spoke of the wretchedness of their situation, and advised them to demand an increase of wages. Idleness and extravagance in the lower classes of life are soon roused to rebellion: the spirit of discontent pervaded their bosoms, and they endeavoured to spread their principles among their honest and laborious brethren. But here they failed. Industry and virtue seldom listen to the suggestions of vice. However, too many of them willingly attended to his advice; and a party was formed sufficiently strong, which Sir George promised to head, and endeavour by remonstrances to prevail on Mr. Annesley to grant them the wished-for addition to their wages. Our hero meant only to remonstrate; but a lawless rabble is like a raging ocean, and none but a superior power can say, "Thus far shalt thou go, but no farther."
This plan was to have been executed a few days after his return from London; but the following morning he received a message from Mr. Davenport, to say Mr. Annesley was gone into the west of England, and would not be at home for some time: it was therefore necessarily deferred; and Sir George was now at leisure to follow his usual occupations. Part of his time was devoted to his followers; repeating the good advice he had before given them, and accompanying it with tokens of his bounty still more welcome. The rest was given to Mr. Wilmot and his family.
The reception he met with on his return from the younger part of it was prettily varied. Myrtilla met him with a good-humoured smile; Rosetta, with a look of disdainful dignity, intended to make him uneasy; and Fidelia, with an air of languishing pensiveness: she would have blushed, if a blush would have arisen at her command—but advancing towards him, she hung her head, and trembled with tolerable effect: but on his insensible heart it was all lost.
The next day at dinner, a new stratagem was tried by the sisters; for Rosetta and Fidelia had entered into an amicable agreement respecting our hero: next to their own interest with him, they agreed to assist each other. In pursuance of this plan, the latter with her usual gentleness rallied the former on some new conquest she had gained. Rosetta's pretended distress was evident: she coloured, bit her fan, and was in great agitation; but that agitation became real, when her sister hinted that the gentleman had not been unsuccessful in his application. Here she went far beyond her commission; but a rival is never to be trusted. Rosetta only meant she should awaken his feelings, not his jealousy: but Fidelia had her own views in this, as she wished to convince him of her sister's indifference. But it was now her turn to triumph: she drew from her pocket a pastoral elegy from Delia to Lycidas, that she had picked up under the great oak in the park. This was to have been given to Sir George, with a hint that it was the first effusion of Fidelia's virgin muse, and addressed to him; but Rosetta said not a word, maliciously hoping, and not without reason, that he would condemn it as a silly and ridiculous poem, and that she should thus be amply revenged for her base conduct.
Our hero, quite unconscious of the snare, began to read it aloud with a mock gravity, imagining it was designed as a burlesque; but Myrtilla, aware of the author, from having seen Fidelia walk up and down the great gallery by moonlight for two or three evenings, repeating to herself with unusual emphasis, now trembled for her feelings, and, though not without blushing for her folly, at once told Sir George who was the writer. Our hero, particularly concerned at the mistake he had made, altered his tone gradually; and, when he had concluded, returned it to Fidelia, saying in an embarrassed manner, that "whoever she meant by Lycidas was too happy in being the object of her esteem;" and then, unable to recover himself, made some slight excuse, and quitted the room; leaving Fidelia fully convinced of his attachment, from his hesitation, which she attributed to a sudden emotion of tender gratitude. Priding herself on this, and not aware of Rosetta's intentions, as totally unconscious that her elegy contained any thing ridiculous, she began to display her mean triumph; when Rosetta, who was previously enraged, now expressed all the bitterness she had for some time concealed.
Myrtilla, who alone saw things in a right point of view, was deeply concerned at her sister's folly, but knew not how to act. Advice they scorned; reproof offended them; their mother was too indolent to exert herself properly; and she feared that her father, who was a man of plain capacity, would not entirely understand these feminine quarrels. At present, however, she had nothing to do but to separate the angry combatants; and, having effected it with much difficulty, persuaded them to retire to their chambers. She then sought our hero, who was in the park ruminating on his peculiar situation, and was now for the first time sensible of Fidelia's attachment, for such he really thought it; and began to consider how he could leave the house without giving Mr. Wilmot the reasons. Whilst debating this point, Myrtilla met him, and to her he mentioned his suspicions. Miss Wilmot in reply assured him "he need not be apprehensive of wounding the feelings of her sister," and then gave him her real opinion on the subject; for, enraged at the meanness and duplicity of their conduct, she thought herself justified in revealing it. Surprise for a moment took place of every other emotion; for he was till now a stranger to those feminine arts which distinguish the fair sex, and very far from believing himself an object of peculiar attention. He was now convinced there was no immediate necessity for his quitting Violet Hill, at the same time determined to be as little there as possible, till he could accomplish his design with respect to Mr. Annesley, which would depend on his return from the west. It therefore occurred to him that he might avail himself of that gentleman's absence to pay a visit to Lord Milbanke; and accordingly that evening he wrote him a short letter to signify his intention of waiting on him in a week, as he had promised the following morning to accompany the young ladies to the county town to spend a few days with an uncle who resided there. This promise had been given before the distressing events of the afternoon, and he could not now recall it; though he felt very little pleasure in the idea of being considered as the attendant of Rosetta and Fidelia, for Miss Wilmot was detained at home by the expectation of company. The evening passed off awkwardly enough; and the next day at ten o'clock he mounted his horse, and escorted his fair companions to D—.
The following morning was Sunday, and he accompanied the family to church; and Mr. James Wilmot's pew not being large enough to accommodate the whole party, Fidelia and himself were shewn into another. The service was just begun; and the seat before them being empty, our hero having no book, Fidelia gave him one she had just taken from it: but what were his emotions, when, accidentally opening the first page, he saw the name of Louisa Moreland! The extreme agitation he suffered hurt him the more, as it convinced him the first impression she had made on his heart her subsequent conduct had not been able wholly to subdue. It was not unnoticed by Fidelia, who enquiring the cause, he shewed her the book; but the attention of both was suddenly called from that by the door of the next seat being opened by the sexton, and three girls entered, the eldest about twelve years old, followed by Miss Moreland herself. The additional glow on the cheek of our hero immediately informed Fidelia of the truth, and she endeavoured, but in vain, to draw his eyes from her. A few moments reflection, however, effected what she could not; he fixed his thoughts on Louisa's late behaviour, and became calm enough to restore her prayer-book, which she was then looking for. She had not turned her head since her entrance; but, on taking the book with a slight curtsey, she caught his eye, and, instantly recollecting him, coloured deeply; and her emotion became visible even to the children, who, pulling her by the cloak, asked what was the matter. She replied in a low whisper, and immediately sat down. Her agitation increased the distress of Sir George, and Fidelia was racked with a thousand fears lest the bewitching countenance of Louisa (for bewitching even her rival allowed it to be) should obliterate from the mind of our hero the remembrance of her depravity.
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all.
Fidelia was aware of this, and determined that if possible he should not look on her face any more; and indeed, to his honour be it spoken, he had made the same determination.
When the service was ended, Fidelia opened the door, and begged him to follow her; but at the same moment Miss Moreland leaned over the pew, and requested he would give her leave to speak to him for a few minutes. Sir George bowed coldly, and made no reply; but Fidelia, dreading the consequences of an interview, answered with a haughtiness she could occasionally assume, "that the gentleman was in haste, and must not be detained." Our hero had no time to hesitate, as she seized his arm, and begged they might leave the church before the generality of people moved.
When arrived at home, she called her uncle into another room, who, soon returning, asked Sir George to accompany him in a walk; which he gladly assented to, happy in being relieved from the Miss Wilmots, whose society wearied and displeased him. The day in general passed off heavily enough, and the following not much better. Our hero was disturbed by the beautiful image of Louisa, which still haunted him; and he wished to enquire respecting her present situation, but dared not; as he knew it would draw on him reproofs he was but too conscious of deserving. Tuesday was fixed for their return; and he retraced with particular satisfaction the road that led to Violet Hill.
After dinner, when the family were all assembled, the conversation turning on the manner of their passing their time at D—, Fidelia, with much solemnity in her voice and manner, addressed our hero:
"I should perhaps, Sir George, feel some embarrassment at relating a circumstance I have too much reason to fear will give you pain, did not my conscience tell me I have acted from the best and noblest motives, and have exerted myself in the cause of justice, at the expence of all my benevolent feelings and a cruel wound to my sensibility. Of Miss Moreland's guilt you can have no doubt; yet I saw her presence distressed you extremely. On enquiry I learned she had been lately engaged as a governess by Mrs. Edgeworth of Bellmour Hall, about a mile and a half from D—; and, consulting both my aunt and sister, we were unitedly of opinion that a woman capable of acting as she has done was entirely unfit to form either the minds or morals of young people; and that it would be right to inform Mrs. Edgeworth whom she had in her house, and leave her to act as she thought proper. In consequence of this determination, whilst you were walking with my uncle, Rosetta and myself set out and called on that lady. We found her at home; and, after apologizing for the step we were about to take, enquired by what means Miss Moreland had gained an asylum with her; and learned from the reply, she had imposed on them by a story similar to that she related to you. I then mentioned every particular of her conduct at Warrington, where I said she had gone in consequence of your benevolence. Mrs. Edgeworth was much distressed, and her husband enraged; the latter declaring she should not sleep another night under his roof. As a corroboration of what I asserted, Mrs. Edgeworth, though evidently concerned (for I perceived the girl has had art enough to ingratiate herself with most of the family), acknowledged 'she came home that morning extremely ill; and the children, being called in, declared to the same effect; that she was so much agitated during the service, they were greatly alarmed; and that, after the gentleman refused to speak to her, she was so ill they thought she would have fainted in the carriage as they came along.' This confirmed the truth of my story; and Mr. Edgeworth said, 'she should quit his house directly.' I assured them, if they chose to make an application to you, we would accompany them back to my uncle's with pleasure; but this they politely declined, saying, 'they had no doubt of our veracity, as we could be induced by no motive but a wish for their welfare.' I then begged your name might not be mentioned to Louisa, as I thought you would not feel happy in the idea of being known as the means of depriving her of their protection, and had rather it should be concealed. This they promised; and, in the evening, I received a note from Mrs. Edgeworth to inform us that Miss Moreland had left their house. And now, Sir George, tell me, have I not acted properly?"
Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot both joined in praising the spirit she had shewn; and Sir George could not deny the justice of her conduct: at the same time he reprobated the motives; for he well knew both Rosetta and Fidelia were more strongly impelled by jealousy than any other cause. The same idea struck Miss Wilmot, but she did not choose to reveal it; and the following morning, our hero, heartily tired of the whole family but Myrtilla, took a friendly leave of her, and set out for Lord Milbanke's; where arriving some days earlier than he had intended, he was an unexpected but not an unwelcome guest.
END OF VOL. II.