THE HISTORY OF HARRIOT AND SOPHIA CONTINUED

AS soon as Mr Herbert went away, Harriot, who had been listening, and had heard all that past, entered the room. The virtue and strength of mind her sister shewed in the design she had formed of flying from Sir Charles Stanley excited her envy; and she would have joined with her mother in endeavouring to prevail upon her to stay, to prevent the superiority such conduct gave her, had not that envy found a more sensible gratification in the thought that Sophia would no longer receive the adorations of the young baronet; and that all her towering hopes would be changed to disappointment and grief.

The discontinuance of those presents which Sir Charles so liberally bestowed on them, evidently on Sophia’s account, and which had hitherto enabled them to live in affluence, affected her but little; for vanity is a more powerful passion than interest in the heart of a coquet; and the pleasure of seeing her sister mortified and deserted by her lover out-weighed  all other confiderations: besides, she was not without hopes that when Sophia was out of the way, her charms would regain all their former influence over the heart of Sir Charles.

She came prepared therefore to support her in her resolution of going into the country; but Mrs. Darnley, who did not enter into her views, and who had no other attention but to secure to herself that ease and affluence she at present enjoyed, expected Harriot would use her utmost efforts to prevent her sister from disobliging a man whose liberality was the source of their happiness.

She complained to her in a tender manner of Sophia’s unkindness; she exaggerated the ill consequences that might be apprehended from the affront she put on Sir Charles, by thus avowing the most injurious suspicions of him; and declared she expected nothing less than to be reduced by the loss of her pension to that state of misery from which he had formerly relieved her.

Sophia melted into tears at these words; but a moment’s reflection convinced her, that her mother’s apprehensions were altogether groundless: Sir Charles was not capable of so mean a revenge; and Sophia, on this occasion, defended him with so much ardor, that Miss Darnley could not help indulging her malice, by throwing out some severe sarcasms upon the violence of her affection for a man whom she affected to despise.

Sophia blushed; but answered calmly, “Well, sister, if I love Sir Charles Stanley, I have the more “merit in leaving him.”

‘Oh, not a bit the more for that, replied Harriot; for, as I read in one of your books just now, Virtue would not go so far, if pride did not bear her company’

‘Sister, said Sophia, no woman is envious of another’s virtue who is conscious of her own.’

This retort threw Harriot into so violent a rage, that Sophia who knew what excesses she was capable of, left the room, and retired to pack up her cloaths, that she might be ready when Mr. Herbert called for her.

In this employment Mrs. Darnley gave her no interruption; for Harriot having quitted her mother in a huff, because she did not join with her against Sophia, she was left at liberty to pursue her own reflections. After long doubt and perplexity in what manner to act, she resolved to consent that Sophia should depart; for she saw plainly that it would not be in her power to prevent it, and she was willing to derive some merit from the necessity she was under of complying. She considered that if Sir Charles really loved her daughter, her flight on such motives would rather increase than lessen his passion; and that all his resentment for being deprived of her sight would fall upon Mr. Herbert, who was alone in fault.

Mrs. Darnley, as has been before observed, was not of a temper to anticipate misfortunes, or to give herself much uneasiness about evils in futurity: she always hoped the best, not because she had any well-grounded reasons for it, but because it was much more pleasing to hope than to fear.

Sophia, when she saw her next, found her surprisingly altered: she not only no longer opposed her going, but even seemed desirous of it; and this she thought a master-piece of cunning which could not fail of gaining Mr. Herbert’s good opinion; never once reflecting that her former opposition deprived her of all the merit of a voluntary compliance.

This change in Mrs. Darnley left Sophia no more difficulties to encounter but what she found in her own heart. Industrious to deceive herself, she had imputed all the uneasy emotions there to the grief of leaving her mother contrary to her inclination: she had now her free consent to go, yet still those perturbations remained. She thanked her mother for her indulgence: she took her hand, and tenderly pressed it to her lips, tears at the same time flowing fast from her eyes.

Mrs. Darnley was cruel enough to shew that she understood the cause of this hidden passion. ‘What, said she, to the poor blushing Sophia, after all the clutter you have made about leaving Sir Charles, does your heart fail you, now you come to the trial?’

Sophia, abashed and silent, hid her glowing face with her handkerchief; and having with some difficulty represt another gush of tears, assumed composure enough to tell her mother that she hoped she should never want fortitude to do her duty.

‘To be sure, replied Mrs. Darnely, with a sneer, one so wise as you can never mistake your duty.’

‘Sophia however understood hers so well that she did not offer to recriminate upon this occasion;  for Mrs. Darnley was but a shallow politician, and was thrown so much off her guard by the vexation she felt, that an affair on which she built such great hopes had taken so different a turn, that she gave plain indications of her displeasure, and that her consent to her daughter’s going was indeed extorted from her.’

Sophia had many of these assaults to sustain, as well from Harriot as Mrs. Darnley, during the remainder of that day; but they were of service to her. Her pride was concerned to prevent giving a real cause for such sarcasms as her sister in particular threw out: opposition kept up her spirits, and preserved her mind from yielding to that tender grief which the idea of parting for ever from Sir Charles excited.

When Mr. Herbert came the next morning, Mrs. Darnley, who had no better part to play, had recourse again to dissimulation, and expressed great willingness to send her daughter away; but the good man, who saw the feint in her overacted satisfaction, suffered her to imagine that she had effectually imposed upon him.

Sophia wept when she took leave of her mother, and returned the cold salute her sister gave her with an affectionate embrace. She sighed deeply as Mr. Herbert helped her into the post-chaise; and continued pensive and silent for several minutes, not daring to raise her eyes up to her kind conductor, lest he should read in them what passed in her heart.

Mr. Herbert, who guessed what she felt upon this occasion, was sensibly affected with that soft melancholy,  so easy to be discovered in her countenance, notwithstanding all her endeavours to conceal it. He wished to comfort her, but the subject was too delicate to be mentioned: kind and indulgent as he was, he began to think his admired Sophia carried her concern on this occasion too far; so true it is, that the case of tried virtue is harder than that of untried: we require from it as debts continual exertions of its power, and if we are at any time disappointed in our expectations, we blame with resentment as if we had been deceived.

Sophia’s sensibility, however, was very excusable; in flying from Sir Charles she had done all that the most rigid virtue could demand; for as yet she had only suspicions against him; and this man, whose generous gift she had returned with silent scorn, whom she had avoided as an enemy, had hitherto behaved to her with all the tenderness of a lover, and all the benevolence of a friend. It was under that amiable idea that he now presented himself to her imagination; her pride and her resentment were appeased by the sacrifice she had made in her abrupt departure, and every unkind thought of him was changed to tender regret for his loss.

Mr. Herbert, by not attempting to divert the course of her reflections, soon drew her out of her revery: his silence and reserve first intimated to her the impropriety of her behaviour. She immediately assumed her usual composure, and during the remainder of their little journey, she appeared as chearful and serene as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

The good curate with whom she was to lodge having rode out to meet his friend and his fair guest, joined them when they had come within three miles of his house. Mr. Herbert, who had descried him at a little distance, shewed him to Sophia: ‘There, my dear, said he, is a man who with more piety and learning than would serve to make ten bishops is obliged to hire himself out at the rate of sixty pounds a year, to do the duty of the parish-church, the rector of which enjoys three lucrative benefices, without praying or preaching above five times in a twelvemonth.’

Mr. Lawson, for that was the curate’s name, had now gallop’d up to the chaise, which Mr. Herbert had ordered the post-boy to stop, and many kind salutations passed between the two friends.

Sophia was particularly pleased with the candor and benevolence which appeared in the looks and behaviour of the good clergyman; who gazed on her attentively, and found the good opinion he had entertained of her from Mr. Herbert’s representations fully confirmed. The bewitching sweetness in her voice and eyes, the spirit that animated her looks, and the peculiar elegance of her address, produced their usual effects, and filled Mr. Lawson’s heart with sentiments of tenderness, esteem, and respect for her.

Mrs. Lawson and her two daughters received her with that true politeness which is founded on good sense and good nature. Both the young women were extremely agreeable in their persons, and Sophia contemplated with admiration the neat simplicity  of their dress, their artless beauty, and native sweetness of manners. Health died their cheeks with blushes more beautiful than those the fine lady borrows from paint; innocence and chearfulness lighted up smiles in their faces, as powerful as those of the most finished coquet; and good humour and a sincere desire of obliging, gave graces to their behaviour which ceremony but poorly imitates.

These were Sophia’s observations to Mr. Herbert, who seized the first opportunity of speaking to her apart, to ask her opinion of her new companions. He was rejoiced to hear her express great satisfaction in her new situation, and not doubting but time and absence, assisted by her own good sense and virtue, would banish Sir Charles Stanley entirely from her remembrance; he scrupled not to leave her at the end of three days, after having tenderly recommended her to the care of this little worthy family, every individual of which already loved her with extreme affection.

Sophia was indeed so much delighted with the new scene of life she had entered upon, and her fancy was at first so struck with the novelty of all the objects she beheld, that the continual dissipation of her thoughts left no room for the idea of the baronet: but this deceitful calm lasted not long. She soon found by experience, that the silence and solitude of the country were more proper to nourish love than to destroy it; and that groves and meads, the nightingale’s song, and the rivulet’s murmur, were food for tender melancholy.

Mt. Lawson’s house was most romanticly situated on the borders of a spacious park; from whose opulent owner he rented a small farm, which supplied his family with almost all the necessaries of life. Mrs. Lawson his wife, brought him a very small fortune, but a great stock of virtue, good sense, and prudence. She had seen enough of the world to polish her manners without corrupting her heart; and having lived most part of her time in the country, she understood rural affairs perfectly well, and superintended all the business of their little farm. Their two daughters were at once the best house-wifes, and the most accomplished young women in that part of the country. Mr. Lawson took upon himself the delightful task of improving their minds, and giving them a taste for useful knowledge: and their mother, besides instructing them in all the economical duties suitable to their humble fortunes, formed them to those decencies of manners and propriety of behaviour, which she had acquired by a genteel education, and the conversation of persons of rank. In the affairs of the family, each of the young women had their particular province assigned them. Dolly, the eldest, presided in the dairy; and Fanny, so was the youngest called, assisted in the management of the house. Sophia soon entertained a friendship for them both; but a powerful inclination attached her particularly to Dolly. There was in the countenance of this young woman a certain sweetness and sensibility that pleased Sophia extremely; and though she had all that chearfulness which youth, health, and innocence inspire,  yet the pensiveness that would sometimes steal over her sweet features, the gentle sighs that would now and then escape her, excited a partial tenderness for her in the heart of Sophia.

She took pleasure in assisting her in her little employments. Dolly insensibly lost that care which the presence of the fair Londoner first inspired, and repaid her tenderness with all that warmth of affection which only young and innocent minds are capable of feeling.

Sophia, instructed by her own experience, soon discovered that her young friend was in love; but neither of them disclosed the secret of their hearts to each other. Dolly was with-held by bashful timidity, Sophia by delicate reserve. Fond as they were of each other’s company, yet the want of this mutual confidence made them sometimes chuse to be alone. Sophia having one evening strayed in the wood, wholly absorbed in melancholy thoughts, lost her way, and was in some perplexity how to recover the path that led to Mr. Lawson’s house; when looking anxiously around her, she saw Dolly at a distance, sitting under a tree. Overjoyed to meet her so luckily, she was running up to her, but stopped upon the appearance of a young man, who, seeing Dolly, flew towards her with the utmost eagerness, and with such an expression of joyful surprize in his countenance as persuaded her this meeting was accidental.

Sophia, not willing to interrupt their conversation, passed on softly behind the trees, unobserved by Dolly, who continued in the same pensive attitude;  but being now nearer to her, she perceived she was weeping excessively.

Sophia, who was greatly affected at this sight, could not help accompanying her tears with some of her own; and not daring to stir a step farther for fear of being seen by the youth, she resolved to take advantage of her situation, to know the occasion of Dolly’s extraordinary affliction.

The poor girl was so wrapt in thought, that she neither saw nor heard the approach of her lover, who called to her in the tenderest accent imaginable, “My dear Dolly, is it you? Won’t you look at me? Won’t you speak to me? What have I done to make you angry, my love? Dont go (for upon hearing his voice she started from her seat, and seemed desirous to avoid him) don’t go, my dear Dolly, said he, following her (and she went slowly enough) don’t drive me to despair.”

“What would you have me do, Mr. William, said she, stopping and turning gently towards him, you know my father has forbid me to speak to you, and I would die rather than disoblige him: you may thank your proud rich aunt for all this. Pray let me go, pursued she, making some faint efforts to withdraw her hand, which he had seized and held fast in his, you must forget me, William, as I have resolved to forget you,” added she sighing, and turning away her head lest he should see the tears that fell from her eyes.

Cruel as these words founded in the ears of the passionate William, yet he found something in her voice and actions that comforted him; “No, my dear Dolly, said he, endeavouring to look in her averted  face, I will not believe that you have resolved to forget me; you can no more forget me than I can you, and I shall love you as long as I live—I know you say this only to grieve me; you do not mean it.”

“Yes I do mean it, replied Dolly, in a peevish accent, vexed that he had seen her tears. I know my duty, and you shall find that I can obey my father.” While she spoke this, she struggled so much in earnest to free her hand from his, that fearing to offend her, he dropped it with a submissive air.

Dolly having now no pretence for staying any longer, bid him farewell in a faltering voice, and went on, tho’ with a slow pace, towards her father’s house. The youth continued for a moment motionless as a statue, with a countenance as pale as death, and his eyes, which were suffused with tears, fixed on the parting virgin.

‘What, cried he at last, in the most plaintive tone imaginable, can you really leave me thus? go then, my dear unkind Dolly, I will trouble you no more with my hateful presence; I wish you happy, but if you hear that any strange mischief has befallen me, be assured you are the cause of it.’

He followed her as he spoke, and Dolly no longer able to continue her assumed rigour, stopped when he approached her, and burst into tears. The lover felt all his hopes revive at this sight, and taking her hand, which he killed a thousand times, he uttered the tenderest vows of love and constancy; to which she listened in silence, only now and then  softly sighing; at length she disengaged her hand, and gently begged him to leave her, lest he should be seen by any of the family. The happy youth, once more convinced of her affection for him, obeyed without a murmur.

Dolly, as soon as he had quitted her, ran hastily towards home; but he, as if every step was leading him to his grave, moved slowly on, often looking back, and often stopping: so that Sophia who was afraid she would not be able to overtake her friend, was obliged to hazard being seen by him, and followed Dolly with all the speed she could.

As soon as she was near enough to be heard she called out to her to stay. Dolly stopt, but was in so much confusion at the thought of having been seen by Miss Darnley, with her lover, that she had not courage to go and meet her. ‘Ah Miss Dolly, said Sophia smiling, I have made a discovery; but I do assure you it was as accidental as your meeting with that handsome youth, who I find is your lover.’

‘Yes, indeed, replied Dolly, whose face was covered with blushes, my meeting with that young man was not designed, at least on my part: but surely you jest, Miss Darnley, when you call him handsome: do you really think him handsome?’

‘Upon my word I do, said Sophia; he is one of the prettiest youths I ever saw; and if the professions of men may be relied on, added she, with a sigh, he certainly loves you; but, my dear Dolly, by what I could learn from your conversation, he has not your father’s consent to make  his addresses to you; I was sorry to hear that, Dolly, because I perceive, my dear, that you like him.’

Dolly now held down her head, and blushed more than before, but continued silent. ‘Perhaps you will think me impertinent, resumed Sophia, for speaking so freely about your affairs; but I love you dearly, Miss Dolly.’— ‘And I, interupted Dolly, throwing one of her arms about Sophia’s neck, and kissing her cheek, love you, Miss Darnley, better a thousand times than ever I loved any body, except my father and mother and sister.’

‘Well, well, said Sophia, I won’t dispute that point with you now; but if you love me so much as you say, my dear Dolly, why have you made a secret of this affair? friends do not use to be so reserved with each other.’

‘Perhaps, said Dolly, smiling a little archly, you have taught me to be reserved by your example; but indeed, added she, with a graver look and accent, I am not worthy to be your confidant; you are my superior in every thing: It would be presumption in me to desire to know your secrets.’

‘You shall know every thing that concerns me, interupted Sophia, which can be of use to you, and add weight to that advice I shall take the liberty to give you upon this occasion: I am far from being happy, my dear Dolly, and I blush to say it; it has been in the power of a deceitful man greatly to disturb my peace.’

Sophia here wiped her charming eyes, and Dolly who wept sympathetically for her, and for herself,  exclaimed, ‘Is there a man in the world who could be false to you? alas! what have I to expect?’

‘Come, my dear, said Sophia, leading her to the root of a large tree, let us sit down here, we shall not be called to supper yet, you have time enough to give me some account of this young man, whom I should be glad to find worthy of you: tell me how your acquaintance began, and what are your father’s reasons for forbidding your correspondence.’

[To be continued.] 

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