DOLLY, though encouraged by the sweet condescension of Sophia, who, to inspire her with confidence, freely acknowledged the situation of her own heart, blushed so much, and was in such apparent confusion, that Sophia was concerned at having made her a request which gave her so much pain to comply with.
At length the innocent girl, looking up to her with a bashful air, said, ‘I should be ashamed, dear Miss, to own my weakness to you, if I did not know that you are too generous to think the worse of me for it: to be sure I have a great value for Mr. William; but I was not so foolish as to be taken with his handsomeness only, tho’ indeed he is very handsome, and I am delighted to find that you think him so; but Mr. William, as my father can tell you, madam, is a very fine scholar: he was educated in a great school at London, and there is not a young squire in all this country who has half his learning, or knows how to behave himself so genteely as he does, though his father is but a farmer: however, he is rich, and he has but one child besides Mr. William, and that is a sickly boy, and not likely to live; so that Mr. William, it is thought, will have all.’
‘I should imagine then, said Sophia, that this young man would not be a bad match for you?’
‘A bad match, replied Dolly, sighing: no certainly; but his aunt looks higher for him: yet there was a time when she was well enough pleased with his liking me.’
‘What is his aunt, said Sophia, and how does it happen that she has any authority over him?’
‘Why you must know, madam, answered Dolly, that his aunt is very rich; when she was a young woman, a great lady took a fancy to her, and kept her as her companion a great many years, and when she died, she left her all her cloaths and jewels, and a prodigious deal of money: she never would marry; for she was crossed in love, they say, in her youth, and that makes her so ill natured and spiteful, I believe, to young people; but notwithstanding that, I cannot help loving her, because she was always so fond of Mr. William: she is his god-mother, and when he was about ten years old she sent for him to London, and declared she would provide for him as her own; and indeed she acted like a mother towards him: she put him to school, and maintained him like a gentleman; and when he grew up, she would have made a gentleman of him; for she had a great desire that he should be an officer.’
‘Mr. William at that time was very fond of being an officer too; but as he was very dutiful and obedient to his father, indeed Miss Sophia he is one of the best young men in the world, he desired leave to consult him first; so about a year ago he came to visit his father, and has never been at London since; and he had not been long in the country before he changed his mind as to being an officer, and declared he would be a farmer like his father, and live a country life.’
‘Ah Dolly, said Sophia smiling, I suspect you were the cause of this change, my friend.’
‘Why indeed, replied Dolly, he has since told me so: but perhaps he flattered me when he said it; for, ah my dear Miss, I remember what you said just now about the deceitfulness of men, and I tremble lest Mr. William should be like the rest.’
‘Well, my dear, interupted Sophia, go on with your story; I am impatient to know when you saw each other first, and how your acquaintance began.’
‘You know, madam, said Dolly, my father keeps us very retired: I had no opportunity of seeing Mr. William but at church; we had heard that farmer Gibbons had a fine son come from London, and the Sunday afterwards when we were at church, my sister, who is a giddy wild girl, as you know, kept staring about, in hopes of seeing him. At last she pulled me hastily, and whispered, look, look, Dolly, there is farmer Gibbons just come in, and I am sure he has got his London son with him, see what a handsome young man he is, and how genteely he is drest!’
‘Well, madam, I looked up, and to be sure I met Mr. William’s eyes full upon me; I felt my face glow like fire; for as soon as I looked upon him, he made me a low bow. My sister courtesied; but for my part, I don’t know whether I courtesied or not: I was never so confused in my life, and during the whole time we were at church, I scarce ever durst raise my eyes; for I was sure to find Mr. William looking into our pew.’
‘I suppose you was not displeased with him, said Sophia, for taking so much notice of you?’
‘I do not know whether I was or not, replied Dolly; but I know that I was in a strange confusion during all church-time; yet I observed that Mr. William did not go out when the rest of the congregation did, but staid behind, which made my sister laugh; for he looked foolish enough standing alone. But he staid to have an opportunity of making us another bow; for it is my father’s custom, as soon as he has dismissed the people, to come into our pew and take us home with him. I never shall forget how respectfully Mr. William saluted my father as he passed him. I now made amends for my former neglect of him, and returned the bow he made me with a very low courtesy.’
‘Fanny and I talked of him all the way home: I took delight in hearing her praise him; and although I was never used to disguise my thoughts before, yet I knew not how it was, but I was ashamed to speak so freely of him as she did, and yet I am sure I thought as well of him.’
‘I dare say you did, said Sophia, smiling; but my dear, pursued she in a graver accent, this was a very sudden impression. Suppose this young man whose person captivated you so much, had been wild and dissolute, as many young men are; how would you have excused yourself for that early prejudice in his favour, which you took in so readily at your eyes, without consulting your judgment in the least?’
Dolly, fixing her bashful looks on the ground, remained silent for a moment; then sighing, answered, ‘I am sure if I had not believed Mr. William good and virtuous, I should never have liked him, tho’ he had been a hundred times handsomer than he is; but it was impossible to look on him and think him otherwise; and if you had observed him well, Miss Darnley, his countenance has so much sweetness and candor in it, as my father once said, that you could not have thought ill of him.’
‘It is not always safe, said Sophia, sighing likewise, to trust to appearances: men’s actions as well as their looks often deceive us; and you must allow, my dear Dolly, that there is danger in these sudden attachments; but when did you see this pretty youth again?’
‘Not till the next Sunday, replied Dolly; and tho’ you should chide me never so much, yet I must tell you that this seemed the longest week I ever knew in my life. I did not doubt but he would be at church again, and I longed impatiently for Sunday. At last Sunday came; we went with my father as usual to church, and would you believe it, Miss Darnley, tho’ I wish’d so much to see Mr. William, yet now I dreaded meeting him, and trembled so when I came into church, that I was obliged to take hold of Fanny to keep me from falling. She soon discovered him, and pulled me in order to make me look up: he had placed himself in our way, so that we passed close by him. He made us a very low bow, and my mother, who had not seen him before, smiled, and looked extremely pleased with him; for to be sure, Madam, she could not help admiring him.’
‘Well, I was very uneasy all the time we were in church; for Fanny whispered me that my sweet-heart, for so she called Mr. William, minded nothing but me. This made me blush excessively, and I was afraid my mother would take notice of his staring and my confusion; so that (heaven forgive me) I was glad when the sermon was ended. He made us his usual compliment at our going out, but I did not look up: however, I was impatient to be alone with Fanny, that I might talk of him, and in the evening we walked towards the Park. Just as we had placed ourselves under a tree, we saw a fine drest gentleman, a visitor of the Squire’s as we supposed, coming up to us: upon which we rose and walked homewards; but the gentleman followed us, and coming close to me, stared impudently under my hat, and swearing a great oath, said I was a pretty girl, and he would have a kiss. Fanny seeing him take me by the arm, screamed aloud; but I, pretending not to be frightened, tho’ I trembled sadly, civilly begg’d him to let me go. He did not regard what I said, but was extremely rude; so that I now began to scream as loud as Fanny, struggling all the time to get from him, but in vain, and now who should come to my assistance but Mr. William: I saw him flying across a field, and my heart told me it was he, before he came near enough for me to know him.’
‘As soon as Fanny perceived him, she ran to him and beg’d him to help me; but he did not need intreaty: he flew like a bird to the place where I was, and left Fanny far behind. The rude gentleman bad him be gone, and threatened him severely; for he had taken the hand I had at liberty, which I gladly gave him, and insisted upon his letting me go: and now, my dear Miss Darnley, all my fears were for him, for the gentleman declared if he did not go about his business he would run him through the body, and actually drew his sword; I thought I should have died at that terrible sight; my sister run towards home crying like one distracted; as for me, tho’ the man had let go my hand, and I might have run away, yet I could not bear to leave Mr. William to the mercy of that cruel wretch; and I did what at another time I should have blushed to have done. I took his hand, and pulled him with all my force away; but he, enraged at being called puppy by the gentleman, who continued swearing, that he would do him a mischief, if he did not leave the place, begged me to make the best of my way home; and turning furiously to him who was brandishing his sword about, he knocked him down with one stroke of a cudgel which he fortunately had in his hand, and snatching his sword from him, he threw it among the bushes.’
‘Upon my word (said Sophia) your William’s character rises upon me every moment; this was a very gallant action, and I do not wonder at your liking him now.’
‘Ah, Miss (cried Dolly) if you had seen how he looked when he came back to me, if you had heard the tender things he said—Well, you may imagine I thanked him for the kindness he had done me, and he protested he would with pleasure lose his life for my sake. I think I could have listened to him for ever; but now my father appeared in sight. My sister had alarmed him greatly with her account of what had happened, and he was coming hastily to my assistance, followed by my mother and all the family. As soon as we perceived them coming we mended our pace; for we had walked very slowly hitherto: then it was that Mr. William, who had not spoke so plainly before, told me how much he loved me, and begg’d I would give him leave to see me sometimes. I replied, that depended upon my father, and this was prudent, was it not, my dear Miss Darnley?’
‘Indeed it was, answered Sophia, but what said your lover?’
‘He sighed, Madam, resumed Dolly, and said he was afraid my father would not think him worthy of me: he owned he was no otherwise worthy of me than from the great affection he bore me, and then—But here I fear you will think him too bold and perhaps blame me.’
“I hope not, said Sophia.”
‘Why, Madam, continued Dolly, he took my hand and kissed it a thousand times; and tho’ I did all I could to be sure to pull it away, yet he would not part with it, till my father was so near that he was afraid he would observe him; and then he let it go, and begg’d me in a whisper not to hate him. Bless me, what a strange request that was, Miss Darnely! how could I hate one to whom I had been so greatly obliged! I was ready to burst into tears at the very thought, and told him I was so far from hating him, that —’
‘Pray go on, my dear (said Sophia) observing she hesitated and was silent.’
‘I told him, Madam, resumed she, that I would always regard him as long as I lived.—I did not say too much, did I?’
‘I suppose, said Sophia, you gave him to understand that it was in gratitude for the service he had done you.’
‘To be sure, said Dolly, I put it in that light. Well I am glad you approve of my behaviour, Miss Darnley; so, as I was telling you, my father came up to us, and thanked Mr. William for having rescued his daughter; he then asked him what he had done with the rude fellow? Mr. William told him he had given him a lucky stroke with his cudgel, which had made him measure his length on the ground; but, said he (and sure that showed excessive good nature) I hope I have not hurt him much:’
‘My father said he would go and see; and then shaking Mr. William kindly by the hand, he called him a brave youth, and said he hoped they should be better acquainted—Oh! how glad was I to hear him say so: My mother too was vastly civil to him; and as for Fanny, I thought she would have hugg’d him, she was so pleased with him for his kindness to me. My mother insisted upon his staying to drink tea with us, and as soon as my father came back, we all went in together.’
‘Pray what became of the poor vanquished knight? said Sophia, smiling.’
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, resumed Dolly, that my father said he saw him creeping along as if he was sorely bruised with his fall, supporting himself with his sword, which it seems he had found. We were all glad it was no worse, and Mr. William having accepted my mother’s invitation, he staid with us till the evening was pretty far advanced; and then my father accompanied him part of his way home, and at parting, as he told us, desired to see him often.’
‘He was not backward, you may be sure, in complying with his request: he came so often, that my father was surprised; and besides, my sister and I scarce ever went out to walk but we met him; so that one would have imagined he lived in the fields about our house. My mother at last suspected the truth, and questioned me about him, and I told her all that he had ever said to me; and not long afterwards he took an opportunity to open his heart to my father, and asked his permission to make his addresses to me. With such modesty and good sense he spoke, that my father was extremely pleased with him; but told him that he must consult his friends, and know whether they approved of it, and then he would consider of his proposal. Mr. William, as he afterwards told me, wrote to his aunt first; for he was well assured that his father would agree to any thing that she thought for his advantage.’
‘He had a very favourable answer from Mrs. Gibbons, for she had changed her mind also, with regard to his being an officer, as war was then talked of; and she was afraid of his being sent abroad. He shewed me her letter, and she told him in it, that since he was resolved to settle in the country, she approved of his marrying; and was glad he had not fixed his affections upon some homespun farmer’s daughter; but had chosen a gentlewoman, and one who was well brought up. She added, that she intended to come into the country, in a few weeks; and if she found the young lady (so she called me) answered his description, she would hasten the marriage, and settle us handsomely.—Oh! how pleased was I with this letter, and how did it rejoice Mr. William!’
‘I should never have done, were I to tell you all the tender things he said to me. Mr. Gibbons, at his son’s desire, came to my father, and begged him to give his consent, which he obtained; for my father had well considered the affair before: and nothing was wanting but Mrs. Gibbons’s arrival to make us all happy. Mr. William thought every hour an age till she came, and prest her continually in his letters to hasten her journey.’
‘Alas! if he had known what was to happen, he would not have been so impatient; for soon after she came, all our fine hopes were blasted; and I have now nothing to expect but misery.’
Poor Dolly was so oppressed with grief, when she came to this part of her story, that she was unable to proceed, and burst into tears. The tender Sophia, who was greatly affected with the anguish she saw her in, employed every soothing art to comfort her. And Dolly being a little composed, was going to continue her story, when she saw her sister looking about for them; Sophia and she immediately rose up and joined Fanny, who rallied them both upon their fondness for lonely places; but perceiving that Dolly had been weeping, she immediately became grave, and accommodated her looks and behaviour to the gentle melancholy of her sister.
Sophia, from the state of her own mind, was but too much disposed to sympathize with the love-sick Dolly: these softning conversations were ill calculated to banish from her remembrance, the first object of her innocent affections; and who, with all his faults, she still loved. Dolly’s story awakened a thousand tender ideas, and recalled to her memory every part of Sir Charles’s conduct, which had any resemblance to that of the faithful and passionate William.
She dwelt with tender regret upon these pleasing images, and for a while forgot how necessary it was for her peace, to suppress every thought of Sir Charles, that tended to lessen her just resentment against him.
But, good and pious as she was, the passion she could not wholly subdue she regulated by reason and by virtue; for, as an eminent Divine says, ‘Although it is not in our power to make affliction no affliction; yet we may take off the edge of it, by a steady view of those divine joys prepared for us in another state’
It was quite otherwise with Sir Charles: for the guilty, if unhappy, are doubly so; because they are deprived of those resources of comfort, which the virtuous are sure to find, in the consciousness of having acted well.
Sir Charles, upon finding his settlement sent back to him, in such a manner, as shewed not only the most obstinate resolution to reject his offers, but also a settled contempt for the offerer, became a prey to the most violent passions: rage, grief, affronted pride, love ill requited, and disappointed hope, tormented him by turns; nor was jealousy without a place in his heart; the chaste, the innocent, the reserved Sophia, became suspected by the man, who in vain attempted to corrupt her; so true it is, that libertinism gives such a colour to the actions of others, as takes away all distinction between virtue and vice.
Love, he argued, is either rewarded with a reciprocal affection, or with an inward and secret contempt; therefore he imputed Sophia’s rejection of his offers, not to her disapprobation of the intention of them, but to want of affection for his person; and from her youth, and the tender sensibility of her heart, he concluded, that since he had failed in making an impression on it, it was already bestowed on another; one while he resolved to think no more of her, and repay her indifference and disdain, with silence and neglect; the next moment, dreading lest he had lost her for ever, he regretted his having alarmed her with too early a discovery of his intentions, and sometimes his passion transported him so far, as to make him think seriously of offering her his hand: then starting at his own weakness, and apprehensive of the consequences, he sought to arm himself against that tenderness which suggested so mad a design, by reflecting on her indifference towards him, and accounting for it in such a manner, as fixed the sharpest stings of jealousy in his mind.
Thus various and perplexed were his thoughts and designs; and he was incapable of resolving upon any thing, except to see her; and so great was his impatience, that he would have set out for London, the moment he received the fatal paper, but decency would not permit him to leave his uncle, who was in a dying condition, and wished only to expire in his arms.
The poor man, however, lingered a week longer, during which Sir Charles passed some of the most melancholly hours he had ever known; at length, his uncle’s death left him at liberty to return to London, which he did immediately, and alighted at Mrs. Darnley’s house. Upon hearing she was at home, he did not send in his name, but walked up stairs with a beating heart; he found Mrs. Darnley, and Harriot together, but not seeing the person, whom he only wished to see, he cast a melancholy look round the room, and answering, in a confused, and dejected manner, the mother’s excessive politeness, and the cold civility of the daughter, he threw himself into a chair, with a deep sigh, and was silent.
So evident a discomposure pleased Mrs. Darnley as much as it mortified Harriot. As for Sir Charles, pride and resentment hindered him at first from enquiring for Sophia; but his anxiety and impatience to hear of her, soon prevailed over all other considerations; and tho’ he asked for her with an affected carelessness, yet his eyes, and the tone of his voice betrayed him.
Mrs. Darnley told him, that she was gone into the country: ‘Very much against my inclination, said she: but Mr. Herbert, who you know, Sir, has great power over her, more I think, than I have, would have it so.’
Sir Charles turning as pale as death, replied, in great emotion, ‘What! gone into the country; where is she gone, to whom, why did she go? Against your inclination, did you say, Madam, what could possibly induce her to this? You surprise me excessively.’
Harriot, who did not chuse to be present at the explanation of this affair, now rose up, and went out of the room, smiling sarcastically, as she passed by Sir Charles, and bridling with all the triumph of conscious beauty. He, who was in a bad humour, beheld her airs not only with indifference but contempt, which he suffered to appear pretty plain in his countenance; for he thought it but just to mortify her for her ill-usage of her sister, without considering that he himself was far more guilty, in that respect, towards the amiable Sophia, and equally deserved to be hated by her.
When Harriot was gone, Mrs. Darnley instantly renewed the conversation concerning Sophia; and finding that the young baronet listened to her, with eager attention, she gave him a full account of all that had happened, during his absence: she represented Sophia, as having followed implicitly the directions of Mr. Herbert, whom she called a busy, meddling, officious, old man; and as the behaviour of her daughter, at her going away, gave sufficient room to believe, that her heart suffered greatly by the effort she made, she dwelt upon every circumstance that tended to shew the concern she was under; and did not scruple to exaggerate, where she thought it would be pleasing.
Sir Charles, tho’ he inwardly rejoiced at what he heard, yet dissembled so well, that no signs of it appeared in his countenance. He now seemed to listen with much indifference, and coldly said, he was sorry Miss Sophia would not permit him to make her easy.
The tranquillity he affected alarmed Mrs. Darnley: she who was ever ready to judge by appearances, concluded that all was over, and that the baronet was irrecoverably lost; but had her judgment been more acute, she would have perceived, that he was still deeply interested in every thing that related to Sophia. The questions he asked were not such as curiosity suggests, but the tender anxiety of doubting love: Mrs. Darnley informed him of all he wish’d to hear; Sophia had indeed fled from him, but not without reluctance and grief: she was at present removed from his sight, but she was removed to silence and solitude; and she carried with her a fond impression, which solitude would not fail to encrease.
Thus satisfied, he put an end to his visit, with all imaginable composure, leaving Mrs. Darnley in doubt, whether she should see him again, and more enraged than ever with Mr. Herbert, whose fatal counsels had overthrown all her hopes.
[To be continued.]
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