IT was not long before Sophia had an account of Sir Charles’s visit from her mother, who, forgetting the part she had acted before, wrote her a letter full of invectives against her obstinacy and disobedience, and bitter upbraidings of her folly, for losing by her ill-timed pride, the heart of such a man as Sir Charles.
She told her, with a kind of exultation, that he had utterly forgot her, and repeated every circumstance of his behaviour while he was with her, and every word he had spoke, as all tending to shew his indifference; but though this was done to mortify Sophia, and make her repent of her precipitate departure, yet her discernment, and that facility which lovers have, in flattering their own wishes, pointed out to her many things in this minute relation, which served rather to nourish hope than destroy it.
Mrs. Darnley added, as the finishing stroke, that Sir Charles looked pale and thin; she attributed this alteration in his health to the efforts he had made to banish her from his heart, and thence inferred that a resolution which had cost him so much trouble to confirm, would not be easily broke through; and that she had no reason to expect he would ever desire to see her more.
Sophia could not read this part of the letter without tears, tears that flowed from tender sensibility, accompanied with a sensation which was neither grief nor joy, but composed of both: that Sir Charles should resolve to forget her was indeed afflicting, but that this resolution should cost him struggles so painful as to affect his health, could not but raise her depressed hopes, since it shewed the difficulty of the attempt, and consequently that the success was doubtful.
This letter gave so much employment to her thoughts, that to be at liberty to indulge them she took her evening walk without soliciting the company of her beloved Dolly, and wandered far into the wood, attracted by those romantic shades which afford such soothing pleasure to a love-sick mind. Here, while she meditated on her mother’s letter, and read it over and over, still seeking, and still finding something new in it to engage her attention, she heard the voices of some persons talking behind her, and suddenly recollecting Dolly’s adventure, she began to be alarmed at the distance to which she had unwarily strayed, and turned her steps hastily towards home.
Mean time a sudden gust of wind blew off her hat, and carried it several paces back: she turned, in order to recover it, and saw it taken up by a genteel young man, who on a nearer approach she knew to be the lover of her young friend. Pleased at this encounter, she advanced to receive her hat from him, which he gave her with a blushing grace, awed by the dignity of her mein, and that sparkling intelligence which beamed in her eyes, and seemed to penetrate into his inmost soul; for Sophia, who was deeply interested for her innocent and unhappy friend, considered him attentively, and was desirous of entering into some conversation with him, that she might be enabled to form a more exact judgment of his understanding and manners than she could from the accounts of the partial Dolly.
While she was talking to him they were joined by an ancient gentlewoman, who accosting Sophia, told her in an affected style and formal accent, that her nephew was very happy in having had an opportunity to do her this little piece of service.
Sophia, who saw an old woman, apparently opprest with the infirmities of years, drest in all the ridiculous foppery of the last age, was so little pleased with her, that she would have answered this compliment with great coldness, had not the desire and hope of being serviceable to her friend made her conquer her growing disgust; she therefore resolved to improve this opportunity of commencing an acquaintance with the aunt of young William, and met her advances with her usual sweetness and affability, so that the old woman was quite charmed with her; and being very desirous to gain her good opinion, and to shew her breeding, of which she was extremely vain, overwhelmed her with troublesome ceremony; and, to display her understanding, of which she was equally proud, murdered so many hard words, that her discourse was scarcely intelligible.
Sophia would fain have drawn in the youth to partake of their conversation, but his aunt’s volubility left him very little to say; yet in that little Sophia thought she discovered both good sense and politeness.
The evening being now pretty far advanced, Sophia thought it time to separate, and took leave of her new acquaintance. Their parting was protracted by so many courtesies and compliments from the old lady, that her patience was almost wearied out; at last she get free from her, and quickened her pace towards home, when on a sudden she heard her in a tremulous voice calling out, “Madam, madam, pray stop one moment.” Sophia looked back, and seeing Mrs. Gibbons come tottering up to her with mere speed than was consistent with her weakness, she met her half way, and smiling, asked her why she had turned back?
‘Oh, madam, replied she, I am ready to sink with confusion! what a solsim in good breeding have I committed! to be sure you will think I have been used to converse with savages only.’ Sophia, not able to guess what this speech tended to, looked at Mr. Gibbons as if she wished for an explanation.
‘My aunt, madam, said the youth, (blushing a little at the old woman’s affectation,) is concerned that you should walk home alone, and that I can’t offer my service to attend you, being obliged to lead her, as you see.’
‘That is not all, nephew, said the ceremonious gentlewoman: you do not tell the young lady the true cause of the dilemnia I am in: I would not leave you, madam, pursued she, till I saw you safe home, but you live with a family who has affronted me, and I cannot endure to come within sight of the house. I never can forgive an affront, that would be to shew I do not understand the laws of good breeding: but I thank heaven no body can charge me with that, I was very early institutedinto polite life; but some people are not to be assessed with.’
‘I hope, said Sophia, (scarce able to compose her countenance to any tolerable degree of seriousness) that none of Mr. Lawson’s family have given you cause of complaint: they seem to me incapable of affronting any one, much more a person that.’ —
‘Oh, dear madam, interrupted the old lady, courtesying low, you do me a great deal of honour; but you will find, nay you must have observed already, that Mrs. Lawson is vulgar, very vulgar, she knows nothing of decorums.’
‘I am very sorry for this misunderstanding between you, said Sophia, and I should think it a very great happiness if I could be any way useful in renewing your friendship.’
‘Oh, cried Mrs. Gibbons, you might as well think of joining the Antipoles,madam, as of bringing us together again; and I am grieved beyond measure when I think that it is impossible for me to wait on you.’
‘However, answered Sophia, you will have no objection, I hope, to my coming to see you.’
‘By no means, madam, replied Mrs. Gibbons, you came last into the country, and you are entitled to the first visit; I would not for the world break through the laws of politeness; I am sorry you have so indifferent an opinion of my breeding.’
Sophia perceiving that the old gentlewoman was a little discomposed, for this article of good breeding was a tender point with her, endeavoured to bring her into good humour, by some well-timed compliments, and once more took leave of her; but Mrs. Gibbons now insisted upon her nephew’s seeing her safe home, saying, ‘She would rest herself under a tree till he came back.’
Sophia but faintly declined this civility, for she feared to offend her again; and the joy that sparkled in William’s eyes when his aunt made this offer of his attendance, made her unwilling to disappoint him of the hope of seeing his mistress; so after much ceremony on the part of Mrs. Gibbons, they separated.
As they walked, Sophia took occasion to express her concern for the violent resentment his aunt had entertained against Mr. Lawson’s family, and which seemed to make a reconciliation hopeless.
The youth told her, that nothing could be more trivial than the accident that had occasioned it; and yet, pursued he, sighing deeply, ‘slight as it is, the consequences are likely to be fatal enough.’
During their conversation Sophia discovered so much good sense and delicacy of sentiment in the young William, that she more than ever pitied the fate of these poor lovers, whose happiness was sacrificed to the capricious temper of an affected old woman: she assured him she would neglect no opportunity to improve her acquaintance with his aunt: ‘And perhaps, said she, with an inchanting smile, that expressed the benevolence of her heart, I may be so fortunate as to effect a reconciliation between her and my Dolly’s family.’
Mr. Gibbons thanked her in transports of joy and gratitude; and now Dolly and her sister, who had walked out in search of Sophia, appearing in sight, she mended her pace, in order to come up with them soon; for in the ardent glances that William sent towards his mistress, she read his impatience to speak to her.
Dolly, who was in the utmost surprise, to see Sophia thus accompanied, took no notice of William; but avoiding, with a sweet bashfulness, his earnest and passionate looks: she fixed her eyes on Miss Darnley, as if she wished to hear from her by what chance they had met.
‘I know, said Sophia to her smiling, that you did not expect to see me so agreeably engaged; but Mr. Gibbons can inform you how his aunt, whom we left in the forest yonder, and I became acquainted.’ She then addressed some discourse to Fanny, to give the lovers an opportunity of talking to each other.
Dolly asked a thousand questions concerning their meeting, and his aunt’s behaviour to Miss Darnley; but the passionate youth leaving it to Sophia to satisfy her curiosity, employed the few moments he had to stay with her in tender assurances of his own unaltered affection, and complaints of her indifference.
‘Surely, said Dolly, with tears in her eyes, I ought not to be blamed for obeying my father.’
‘Ah, my dear Dolly, replied William, our affections are not in the power of our fathers; and if you hate me now because your father commands you to do so, you never loved me.’
‘Hate you, cried Dolly; no, Mr. William, my father never bid me hate you; and if he had I am sure I could not have obeyed him: he only commanded me to forget you.’
‘Only to forget me, repeated William, in a melancholy tone: then you think that little, Dolly; and perhaps you will be able to obey him; but be assured I would rather be hated by you than forgotten.’
“That is strange, indeed,” said Dolly, smiling through her tears.
‘You would not think it strange, replied the youth, in an accent that expressed at once grief and resentment, if you had ever loved. Ah Dolly, are all your tender promises come to this! little did I imagine I should ever see you altered thus! but I will trouble you no more, added he, sighing, as if his heart would break; I will endeavour to follow your example: perhaps it is not so difficult a thing as I imagined to cure one’s self of love; you have shewn me it is possible, and if I fail in the attempt I can be but miserable, and that you have made me now.’ As he spoke these words, he turned half from her, and let fall some tears.
Dolly, who had no intention to make him uneasy, was excessively affected with this sight, and not a little alarmed at what he had said: ‘And will you try to forget me, said she, in the most moving tone imaginable; then indeed you will be false and perjured too, for you have sworn a thousand times that you would love me for ever.’
‘Why should you wish to see me wretched, said he; you have resolved to love me no longer, and it is but reasonable that I should try to forget you.’
He would have proceeded in this strain; but turning to look on her, he saw her sweet face overspread with tears. ‘Oh my Dolly, cried he, we are very cruel to each other; but I am most to blame: can you pardon me, my dearest: say you can; alas, I know I do not deserve it.’
Dolly’s heart was so opprest that she was not able to speak; but she held out her hand to her young lover, who seizing it eagerly, prest it to his lips, ‘Yes, I will love you, said he, though you should hate me; I will love you to my latest breath.’
Dolly perceiving Sophia and her sister coming up to them, drew away her hand hastily; but looked on him at the same time, with inexpressible tenderness: Sophia told him with a smile, that she was afraid his aunt would be impatient: upon which he made his bow, and hastened back to her.
Fanny now left her sister alone with Miss Darnley, who perceiving that she had been weeping, asked her tenderly the cause. ‘Oh my dear miss, said the poor girl, blushing and pressing her hand, if I had but a little of your prudence and good sense, I should obey my father better; but when one has once given one’s heart, it is very difficult to recal it.’
‘Very true, my dear, said Sophia; therefore one ought not to be in haste to give it.’
‘I hope, interupted Dolly with an anxious look, you have observed nothing in Mr. William to make you change your good opinion of him.’
‘Quite the contrary, said Sophia, I believe him to be a good, and I am sure he is a sensible youth: nay more, I believe he has a sincere regard for you; and that, pursued she, sighing, is saying a great deal, considering what reason I have to judge unfavourably of men: but, my dear, I would have you keep your passion so far subjected to your reason, as to make it not too difficult for you to obey your father, if he is fully determined to refuse his content.’ I know, added she, with a gentle smile, ‘That it is easier to be wise for others than for ourselves; but I know it is not impossible for a heart in love to follow the dictates of reason: I think so highly of Mr. Lawson’s understanding and goodness, that I am persuaded he would not lay an unreasonable command upon you, and by what I could collect from some hints dropt by Mrs. Gibbons, and the little discourse I had with your lover, the old gentlewoman is wholly to blame.’
‘Did Mr. William tell you, said Dolly, what was the occasion of their quarrel?’
‘No, replied Sophia: I should be glad to hear it from yourself.’
‘Well, resumed Dolly, taking her under the arm, let us go to our dear oak then, and there we shall be out of sight; but I am impatient to know how you met, and what conversation you had.’ Sophia satisfied her curiosity, diverting herself a little with the old lady’s hard words, and her strict regard to ceremony.
‘Ah, said Dolly, it was those hard words, and the clutter she made about ceremony and decorum, that occasioned all our unhappiness; for as I told you, miss, she was well enough pleased with her nephew’s choice, saying, that he was in the right to marry like a gentleman, and prefer person and breeding to money: however, soon after she came into the country, she shewed herself a little dissatisfied with my education, and said, that as my father was a gentleman and a scholar, he ought to have taught his daughters a little Greek and Latin, to have distinguished them from meer country girls.’
‘Your mother, I suppose, said Sophia, laughed at this notion.’
‘It does not become me, said Dolly, to blame my mother; but to be sure she took great delight in ridiculing Mrs. Gibbons: indeed it was scarce possible to help smiling now and then at her hard words, and her formal politeness; but my mother, as Mr. William often told me with great concern, carried her raillery so far that his aunt would certainly be offended with it at last; and so indeed she was, and grew every day cooler, with regard to the marriage. This disgusted my mother more, so every thing wore a melancholy appearance: at length Mrs. Gibbons broke out one day violently, upon my mother’s sending a dish of tea to another gentlewoman before her. I saw a storm in her countenance, and dreading the consequence, I made haste to carry her, her dish myself, but she refused it scornfully, and then began to attack my mother in her strange language, upon her want of breeding, and ignorance of the rules of precendency, that was her word. My mother at first only laughed, and rallied; but when the rest of our visitors was gone, and Mrs. Gibbons only remained, the quarrel grew serious. My mother, who was out of patience with her folly, said some severe things, which provoked Mrs. Gibbons so much, that she rose up in a fury, and declared she would never more have any collection with such vulgar creatures. At that moment my father and Mr. William, who had been walking together, came into the room: they both were excessively surprised at the disorder that appeared among us; and poor Mr. William, who was most apprehensive, turned as pale as death: he gave me a melancholy look, as fearing what had happened, and had scarce courage enough to ask his aunt what was the matter? Mean time, my mother, in a laughing way gave my father an account of what had happened, repeating some of Mrs. Gibbons’s strange words, and made the whole affair appear so ridiculous, that Mrs. Gibbons in a great fury, flung out of the house, declaring that from that moment she broke off any treatise of marriage between her nephew and me; and that, if he continued to make his addresses to me, she would make a will and leave all her money to a distant relation. Mr. William was obliged to follow his aunt; but he begged my father’s leave to return as soon as he had seen her safe home. When he came back, he implor’d my father, with tears in his eyes, not to forbid his seeing me: he said the loss of his aunt’s fortune would give him no concern if he durst hope that it would make no alteration in my father’s resolutions, since his own little inheritance was sufficient to maintain us comfortably. My father was pleased with his generous affection for me, and said a great many obliging things to him, as did my mother likewise, so that we thought our misfortune not so bad; but the next day old Mr. Gibbons came plodding to our house, and with a great deal of confusion and aukwardness, told my father that he was very sorry for what had happened; but sister had changed her mind, and would not let her nephew marry, and he was afraid if he disobliged her she would leave all her money to strangers; so he begged him to give his son no encouragement, but to tell him plainly he must obey his aunt and his father; and he said he was sure his son would mind what my father said to him more than any body else.’
‘I am in pain for poor Mr. Lawson, said Sophia. What a boorish speech was this!’
‘My father, resum’d Dolly, said afterwards, that if it had not been for the concern he felt for me and Mr. William, he would have been excessively diverted with the old man’s simplicity; but he answered him gravely and with great civility: he promised him that the affair should go no farther; that I should receive no more visits from his son; and that he would talk with him, and endeavour to make him submit patiently to what his father and his aunt had determined for him. The old man thanked my father a thousand times over for his kindness, and after a great many bows and scrapes he went away. My father was as good as his word: he laid his commands on me to think no more of Mr. William, and forbad me to see or speak to him; and when Mr. William came next, he took him with him into his study and talked to him a long time. He acknowledged that Mr. William had oftener than once moved him even to tears; but for all that he did not relent, and we were not allowed so much as to speak to each other alone, for fear we should take any measures to meet in private. This I thought very severe, pursued Dolly, sighing, we might at least have been indulged in taking leave, since we were to be separated for ever.’
‘I cannot blame your father, said Sophia, he was indispensably obliged to act as he did: it is to be wished indeed that Mrs. Lawson had passed over the poor woman’s follies with more temper; but this cannot be helped now: perhaps I may be able to serve you. The old gentlewoman seems to have taken a liking to me; I shall endeavour to improve it, that I may have an opportunity to soften her: it is not impossible but this matter may end well yet.’
‘Poor Dolly was ready enough to admit a hope so pleasing, and felt her heart more at ease than it had been a long time. As for William, his aunt’s extravagant praises of Sophia, and some expressions which she dropped, intimating that she should be pleased if he could make himself acceptable to so fine a lady, hinted to him a scheme which might afford him the means of seeing his mistress sometimes: he seemed therefore to listen with satisfaction to these dark overtures made by his aunt, and upon her speaking still plainer, he said it would be presumption in him to think that a young lady so accomplished as Miss Darnley would look down upon him; and besides, he had no opportunity of improving an acquaintance with her, being forbid Mr. Lawson’s house, at her request.’
The old woman, pleased to find he made so little opposition to her desire, told him, ‘That he would have opportunities enough of seeing and conversing with the lady; she often walks out, said she, either in the forest or the fields about the house: cannot you throw yourself in her way, and accost her politely, as you very well know how; and, to felicitate your success, I will let her know that I am willing to receive the honour of a visit from her, though this is against all the rules of decorum, for it is my part to visit her first, she being the greatest stranger here: you shall deliver my message to her to-morrow yourself.’
‘The youth replied, coldly, that it was possible he might not meet with her to-morrow: nevertheless he would go every day to the forest, and wherever it was likely she would walk, in hopes of seeing her.’
Mrs. Gibbons, exulting in the hope of mortifying Mrs. Lawson, told her nephew, ‘That if he could succeed in his addresses to miss Darnley, and give her so fine a lady for a niece, she would settle the best part of her fortune on him immediately.’
William suffered her to please herself with these imaginations, having secured the liberty of going unsuspected, and as often as he pleased, to those places where he could see his beloved Dolly; hitherto he had not dared to indulge himself frequently in these stolen interviews, lest his aunt being informed of them, should take measures to engage Mr. Lawson to keep his daughter under a greater restraint; but now he continually haunted the park, the wood, and the fields about Mr. Lawson’s house: here he could not fail of often seeing his mistress, and sometimes of speaking to her unobserved by any one.
Dolly never failed to chide him as often as this happened, for thus laying her under a necessity of disobeying her father’s injunctions; but she took no pains to shun those places where she was almost sure of meeting him; and her chiding was so gentle, that he was convinced she was not greatly offended.
Sophia happening to meet him one morning, while he was thus sauntering about, she enquired for his aunt, and hearing from him how desirous the old gentlewoman was of seeing her, she who was full of her benevolent scheme, and eager to put it in execution, delayed her visit no longer than till the afternoon.
Mrs. Gibbons considered this as a proof of her nephew’s sincerity, and was in so good a humour, that she listened without any signs of displeasure, to the praises which Sophia artfully introduced of Dolly; and even sometimes joined in them: Sophia thought this a very favourable beginning, and went away full of hope that she should succed in her design: but while she was thus endeavouring to make others happy, her sister was preparing a new mortification for her.
Sir Charles continued to visit Mrs. Darnley as usual: he passed some hours every day at her house, and while he applauded himself for the steadiness of his resolution, not to follow his mistress, he perceived not his own weakness in seeking every alleviation of her absence. He went to the house where she had formerly dwelt, because every object he saw in it brought her dear idea to his mind: he loved to turn over the books he had seen her read, to sit in those places where she used to sit: he was transported when he saw any thing that belonged to her; and when he was not observed by the inquisitive eyes of Harriot, he indulged his own in gazing upon Sophia’s picture, faintly as it expressed the attractive graces of the original: he endured the trifling discourse of Mrs, Darnley and the insipid gaiety of Harriot, and left all other company and amusements to converse with them, that he might hear something concerning Sophia; for he had the art, without seeming to design it, to turn the discourse frequently upon her, and thus drew from the loquacious mother all he desired to know, without appearing to be interested in it.
Mrs. Darnley knew not what judgment to form of his assiduity in visiting her, and vainly endeavoured to penetrate into his views. As for Harriot, who had no idea of those refinements of tenderness which influenced Sir Charles’s conduct on this occasion, she concluded that her charms had once more enslaved him, and exulted in her fancied conquest the more, as it was a triumph over her sister, who had been the occasion of so many mortifications to her.
Nothing is so easy or so fallacious as the belief that we are beloved and admired; our own vanity helps the deceit, where a deceit is intended: and a coquet who has a double portion of it, willingly deceives herself.
Harriot was now fully persuaded that Sir Charles had forgot Sophia, and was wholly devoted to her. Impatient to insult her with the news of his change, she proposed to her mother to make her a visit: Mrs. Darnley immediately consented, not because she was very desirous to see her daughter, but because every thing that wore the face of amusement was always acceptable to her. Sir Charles, upon being made acquainted with their intention, offered to accommodate them with his chariot; and although he only desired them coldly to present his compliments to Sophia, yet when he reflected that they would soon see and converse with her, he could not help envying their happiness; and it was with great difficulty he conquered himself so far as to forbear going with them.
[To be continued.]
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