My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten Pound.'"
"Oh, come! that's Pope!"
"Well, and it's my Case too—pretty near. A callow Poetling writes a Piece, dedicates it to me, and expects me to patronize and print it."
"You? Why, I never saw your Name head a Dedication!"
"Well, Sir, you may shortly—if I find no Way of adroitly declining the Honour, as I have done similar Favours before."
"Why decline?"
"Oh, the Thing's burthensome."
"The ten Pounds may be; but most People consider themselves honoured, and are willing to pay for an expensive Luxury."
"Well, it's no Luxury to me."
"Don't have it, then."
"How avoid it?"
"By simple Neglect. He can't ask for the ten Pounds, if you forget to send them."
"No, but he may abuse me."
"If his Abuse is not clever, Nobody will read it. Come, you are making a Mountain of a Molehill. If he has sent his Poem to you, send it back 'with Thanks,' or forget to return it altogether, or let a Spark fall upon it."
"Then a Spark would fall upon me."
"Nay, if none of those Expedients can fit you, you must help yourself to one. I begin to think you ought to have played Goose, in good Earnest."
They now fell to talking of the Company, and criticizing their Dresses and Deportment, but I was too preoccupied with what they had been saying to attend much to their caustic Remarks; for though they spoke quietly, and their false Heads somewhat disguised their Voices, I could not help entertaining an Impression that the Fox was Mr. Caryl. Was it poor Mr. Fenwick, then, he alluded to so unhandsomely? Oh, the Hollowness of Worldlings! Why, had I not with my own Ears heard him commend Mr. Fenwick's Poem to his Face, and thank him for the Compliment of the Dedication? And yet, here he was waiving it off, as 'twere, and even hinting that Mr. Fenwick wanted to be paid for it! whereas I knew he had refused Money when offered! Oh, the Meanness!... He was jealous, and envious too, I could make out, of a Man that had writ better Verses than his own; and would fain have them supprest. Well, well, this is a wicked World we live in; and that's no News neither.
A false Head and a false Heart, thought I, as the Fox walked off with the Goose. I declare my Hands tingled to pull off that Fox's Head and expose him; but that would have been witless. I got tired of the Vanity-Fair long before Prudence did. At length even she had had enough (and no Wonder, for our Attention had been on the full Stretch for many Hours, without Refreshment or Change of Posture); but the Difficulty was, how to steal away; for the Lobbies and grand Staircase were as thronged as the Ball-Rooms, and we could not in our plebeian Dresses, and unmasked, attempt going among the Company; so there we continued to sit, long after we wanted to come away. At length the Rooms began to thin; and we took Advantage of a chance Dispersion of the Company to make a sudden Flight to the back Stairs. I thought I heard Remarks and Exclamations made, but never looked round; and there, at the Foot of the back Stairs, stood Peter as pale as Death, thinking he had missed us, and never should find us. He had passed the Night, of course, at a Public-House—no good place for him, nor for scores of others that did the same; and was now waiting with our camelot Cloaks and Clogs, which he had stowed safely somewhere where he knew he could find them again. Once equipped, we followed close at his Heels as he elbowed his Way through a Rabble-Rout of Chairmen, Link-Boys, Hackney-Coachmen, Pickpockets, and Lookers-on. It was pouring of Rain, the Pavement shone like Glass, Day was breaking, and I never heard such an uproar in my Life.... "Lady So-and-so's Chariot!" echoed from one hoarse Voice to another all along and round the Corner; and then "Lady So-and-so's Chariot stops the Way!"—till Lady So-and-so stepped in and drove off.
At length we got quit of it all, and picked our Way Home as we best could, and a long Way it seemed! We had too much to do in minding our Dresses, to have Leisure for talking. As we got towards the Five Fields we met plenty of Market-Carts; and now and then we heard the shrilly Cry of some poor little Chimney-Sweep. Once at Home, we were soon in Bed and asleep; and I awoke nearly at my usual Time, chilly and yawnish, but Prue continued sleeping, and I did not wake her.
I was not down quite as soon as usual, after all, and the Milk and Bread were behind Time; and, of Course, Mr. Fenwick did not get his Chocolate as soon as usual. When he heard what had made me late, he looked grave. I said, "Sure, Sir, there was no Harm in looking on?" He said, "Well, I don't know.... It is dangerous to attend not merely Places of pernicious but of doubtful Amusement. Do not your Feelings this Morning tell you that there was Something unsound and unsafe in the Revelry of last Night? And if so in the Case of mere Spectators, how much more in that of actual Participators? and of all those poor People, no voluntary Promoters of it, who only obeyed Orders, and got no Pleasure at all, but what was allied to Dishonesty and Intemperance? I don't want to be overstrict; but am I right or wrong, think you, Mrs. Patty?" And I was obliged to own that I believed he was in the Right on't.
As for Prue, she was fit for Nothing all Day; but she would hear of no Wrong in what had to her been so delightful. So I left her to amuse my quiet Mother with her lively Chat, and attended to the Shop myself.
Chapter X.
Tom's Presents.
I was sitting behind the Counter, when a smart-looking, sunburnt young Man of about two-and-twenty, attired as a Sailor, came into the Shop. He said, "Hallo, Patty! how are you?" I said, "Why, Tom! can it be you? I thought you had been in China!"
"I have been there," says he, "true enough; more-by-Token, here's a China Orange for you;" and clapped one into my Hand with such Force that it went near to go through it.
"How are you all?" said he; "I'm glad to see you, and I hope you're glad to see me."
"Oh yes, very glad, Tom; pray walk into the Parlour—we are all at Home."
"How are you, Uncle?" says he, so loud and sudden that he made my Father jump. "And you, Aunt!"—kissing her. "And you!" kissing Prue too.
"'Manners, Jack!'" says my Father, quoting Gatty's Letter.
"My Name's Tom, Uncle, not Jack, though I suppose you meant Jack Tar. Well! so here you all are! I've only just landed—Didn't forget one of you in foreign Lands; I've brought my Aunt a Monkey."
"A nasty Beast!" cries my Father; "we won't have him here, Tom! He'll break all my China."
"Well, Uncle, I thought she might do a little Damage that Way, ('tis the prettiest little Creature you ever saw; her Ears are bored, and her Name's Jessy!) So I brought you, Sir, a Tea-Service, to cover Breakages; the Cups and Saucers fitting into each other; and the Teapot, no bigger than this Orange, fitting in o' Top; the whole Concern packs in a Cylinder no bigger than a Spice-Box."
"Dear Tom," says my Mother, nervously, "we've more Tea-Services already than we should know what to do with, if we did not keep a genteel Kind of Tea-Garden for the Quality."
"But as you do, Ma'am, won't it be acceptable? Or otherwise, won't you want Jessy to break it? She's the prettiest little Dear you can imagine, the Darling of the whole Ship. Well! it seems you're each discontented with the other's Presents;—my Uncle don't like your having the Monkey, and you don't like his having the Crockery. Then I'll tell you what I'll do—chop and change. I'll take your Presents down to my Father and Mother, and you shall have theirs. I've bought you a Pair of Slippers, Prue, but of course they're too big."
And out he pulled a Pair of little Chinese Slippers that might have pinched Cinderella.
"I'm sure you can't wear them, Prue," said I.
"I'm sure I shan't try," said she, jerking her Chin.
"Well, Patty, since I could find you Nothing better, I've brought you a Feather Fan with an Ivory Handle."
"Thank you, Tom!" said I; "it will do nicely to flap the Flies off the Pastry."
"And since you, Aunt, will not have the Monkey, you must be content with some Gunpowder Tea."
"I shall like that a great deal better, Tom, I assure you. The only Sort of Gunpowder I approve."
Here Tom pulled out of his Pocket what looked like a Mahogany Rule, about nine Inches long. "Now, Sir," says he to my Father, "what's that?"
"I can't for the Life of me tell," says my Father, after eyeing it askance and then handling it.
"I knew you couldn't! See," (unfolding it,) "it's a Boot-jack!"
"A queer one, Tom!"
"And what is it now? Why, a Reading-Desk! What is it now? A Cribbage Board!"
"Ha! Tom, that's ingenious."
"Ingenious, Uncle? I believe it is! What is it now? A Ruler. What is it now? A pair of Snuffers."
"Ha, ha, ha!"
"Ah, I knew you'd laugh—what is it now? An eighteen Inch Rule. What is it now? A Pair of Nut-crackers. What is it now? Two Candlesticks. What is it now? A Picquet-Board. What is it now! A Lemon-squeezer. That's for you, Uncle. That's all the Changes. It will go into your Coat Pocket."
"It shall go there, Tom! 'Tis a real Curiosity."
"I knew you'd say so, Sir. I wasn't sure about the Monkey, but I knew you'd like this. Jessy shall go with me Home, but I shan't go there till next Week, because they don't know we've come up the River, so I shall stay a little here first."
"But, Tom, I don't know how we can take you in, for we have a Lodger."
"Oh my Goodness! Nay, don't put the poor Fellow to Inconvenience on my Account, pray."
"Certainly not!" cried Prue, indignantly. "Why, Mr. Fenwick is quite a Gentleman!"
"Oh, is he so?" said Tom, bursting out laughing, "and pray, what am I? 'Sir, you're no Gentleman!'—is that it, Prue?"
"Why, you're Tom, and that's all."
"And that's enough too, isn't it? Oh, I can swing my Hammock anywhere. I wouldn't put Anyone to the smallest Inconvenience. Would sooner catch my Death of Cold, or lose every Shot in my Locker."
"Tom, you're such a thoughtless, good-tempered Fellow, we must pack you in somewhere."
"Oh, no, Uncle! don't think of it. I'll be off to the Three Bells. Only, there are two Belles here I like better."
"But, Tom, I shouldn't like you to get your Pocket picked."
"And I," said my Mother, "should not like you to take your Death of Cold."
"Never caught Cold in my Life, Ma'am, that was only Flummery; a Sailor has Something else to do than keep sneezing and blowing his Nose. And I can leave my Money and Watch here."
"Prudence," said I, "you and I could sleep in the little blue Closet."
"Why shouldn't Tom," said Prudence, "now the other Door is un-nailed? We should have to move all our Things."
"Thank you, Patty," said Tom, "you were always as sweet as Syrup to me. I shall like the blue Closet a precious deal the best, I can assure you, instead of being mast-headed."
So thus it was arranged; and the light-hearted Fellow was soon established among us, spinning long Yarns, as he called them, about John Chinaman.
The next Day, he was absent for some Hours, and when he came back, he said he wanted Prue and me to go with him in the Evening to see a Conjuror. Prudence, for some Whim, would not go; but I accompanied him with Pleasure. The Way Tom went on, however, spoiled my Evening's Entertainment.
The Conjurer was dressed somewhat in the Oriental Style, and I should have taken him for a real Foreigner, only that Tom whispered to me that was all Sham. In Fact, he began by addressing us in very good English, and saying that the Marvels he was about to display were unaccompanied by any Fraud or Deception, and that any Lady or Gentleman who doubted his Word might come and sit at his Elbow. "I accept your Invitation!" cries Tom; and immediately "slued himself round," as he expressed it, round a Pillar between us and the Stage, slipped down it as if he had been a Monkey, and was at the Man's Side in a Moment. The Conjurer looked sufficiently annoyed, but not more so than I felt, for it seemed to me that the Eyes of all the Audience were alternately on Tom and me, as indeed they well might be. Luckily for my Comfort and Respectability, he left me sitting next to a very steady-looking elderly Couple, the nearest of which said, "Never mind, young Lady, we'll take Care of you." I said, "It was so very thoughtless of him to leave me!" and felt quite uncomfortable. "It was very thoughtless," said the good Woman's Husband, smiling, "I should think, Miss, he's in the sea-faring Line." I said, "Yes, Sir," and we then began to attend to what was going on, on the Stage; but I sat on Thorns all the While.
Tom, quite unembarrassed by the Publicity of his Position, kept his Eyes fixed on the Conjurer's Proceedings with an Air of lively Interest. The two or three first Tricks drew from him such Exclamations as "Capital! Excellent!" which appeared somewhat to mollify the Cunning Man; but at length, when Something was done which seemed very surprising, Tom coolly remarked, "Ah! I see how that is managed," in a Voice as clear as a Bell, that was heard all over the House. The Conjurer shook his Head at him and frowned; but went on to Something else. Again Tom was pleased; again he clapped as heartily as any. The next Trick he marked his Approval of by saying, "Very neat, very neat." At Length came the grand Feat of the Evening, which was swallowing a Carving-Knife. Everybody's Attention was riveted, when Tom said in an Expostulatory Voice, "But, my dear good Fellow, how can you say there is no Fraud or Deception?" "Sir, I defy you to prove any," says the Conjurer. "I will prove it directly," says Tom, "for I have often seen the Thing better done in India." "Sir, you are an impertinent Fellow," says the Conjurer; "I must insist upon it that you withdraw. If you will not retire of your own Accord, you shall do so on Compulsion, for it is highly indecorous to interrupt a public Performance in this Manner."
"Well, but why did you ask me?" said Tom. "I didn't!" says the Conjurer. "You did," says Tom. "Didn't he?" to the whole House. "Knock him down! Throw him over!" cried several Voices. "Give him into Custody!" "Nay," says Tom, "I don't want to make any Disturbance:—if you wish me to go, I'll go, for I never like to put People to the least Inconvenience, and I'm sure if I'd known you didn't mean to be taken at your Word, I would have stayed where I was!" Saying which, he swung himself up the Pillar again, and was by my Side the next Moment, looking as merry and good-tempered as ever. But I was so penetrated with Shame, that I could not bear to look up, but begged him to let us go Home, to which he acceded, though with much Surprise. The next Morning, I was giving my Father and Mother an Account of my uncomfortable Evening, when Tom, coming in to Breakfast, says, "Who is that pale, lanky Chap I met just now upon the Stairs?"
"Tom!—" said Prudence, very indignantly, "it was Mr. Fenwick!"
"How should I know who he was?" rejoined Tom unconcernedly, "I thought he might be a Thief."
"A Thief, indeed!" muttered Prue, as she buttered her Roll.
"Well, Prue," said he briskly, "I gave Patty a Treat last Night, so now it's your Turn."
"You did give Patty a Treat, indeed, my Lad," says my Father ironically.
"I'm glad she found it so, Uncle," says he, quite cheerfully, "so, To-Night, Prudence, I'll take you to the Play."
"I don't know that I want to go," says Prudence.
"Oh! very well, then I'll take Patty."
"Thank you, Tom," said I, "but I don't quite approve of Theatrical Amusements."
"You don't? Oh my Goodness!—And do you disapprove of them, Prue?"
"No, not I," said Prue, "I think Patty more nice than wise."
"Oh, then, come along like a good Girl, and let's go together."
"But, Tom," says my Father, "I shall put a Spoke in that Wheel, unless you promise you won't forsake her as you did Patty last Night."
"I'll promise you a Dozen Times, Uncle, if you think that will make it more secure."
"No, if you promise once in earnest, that will do."
"I do promise."
"But, Tom," put in my dear Mother, "I share Patty's Objections to the Play-House, and I think two such young Heads as you and Prue are hardly to be trusted there. In short, I would rather she did not go."
Prue pouted a little on this—My Father began to chafe.
"Fiddlesticks, my Dear," says he, "you and I often went to a Play together when we were young, and why shouldn't they?"
"Why, my Dear, as I am no longer young, I see Things in a different Light."
"It may not be a truer Light, though, Mrs. Honeywood, and you can't expect young Folks to see Things differently from what you yourself did when you were young. Tut, tut! let the Girl go, and say no more about it."
"But, Mr. Honeywood...."
"But, Madam!" (very loud and angry,) "haven't I said it should be so, and have I a Right to be minded?"
Here my Mother turned pale and trembled, which I never could bear to see; and I was going to urge Prue and Tom, in a low Voice, to give up their Treat rather than foment a Family Quarrel, when I was called into the Shop, which prevented my knowing how the Matter ended. Presently Tom went through the Shop, out of the House; and the next Time I could look into the Parlour, it was empty.
Prue, however, was singing about the House, so I argued that Peace had been restored somehow; most likely by her giving up the Play. By-and-by she comes in all Smiles, and says, "I'll take up Mr. Fenwick's Chocolate," and, before I could say a Word, took the little Tray out of my Hand and was off with it.
I had forgotten all about this, when, some Time after, happening to go up Stairs for my Knotting-Bag, in passing the open Door of Mr. Fenwick's Sitting-Room, I saw him and Prue standing at the Window, their Backs towards me, in earnest Conversation; he holding her by the Hand, and she apparently in Tears. This gave me the oddest Feeling I ever had in my Life—I went up into my Room, sat down on the first Chair I came to, and could hardly turn my Breath. I could not think what had come over me! Presently I got up and tried to drink some cold Water, but could hardly get it down. It seemed to me as if I could not think; and yet there was a great, dull, dark, unwelcome Thought in my Head all the while!
I leant my Head against the Wall; and having quieted myself a little, rose to go down Stairs. Just then, Prue came in, and looked as if she had hoped to find the Room unoccupied. I said, "You've been crying, Prue!" She said, sharply, "No, I haven't!—and what if I had?"—I said, "Only that I should have been sorry to know that you were in Sorrow." She said, "Tears are shed for Joy, sometimes, as well as Sorrow, are not they?" "Certainly," said I; and turned away. "What could make you think I had been crying, Patty?" says she hurriedly. "Well," I said, "I thought you might be vexed about the Play."—"The Play? oh, that was given up before Tom went out," said she—"Of course it did vex me, and I think it was unkind of my Mother not to let me go." "You know her Motives are always kind," said I. "Well, of course I do," says she, still crossly, "but don't harp any more on such a disagreeable Subject. If you do, I shall run away from you." And away she ran.
Then it was not the Play; then it was not about Anything connected with Tom, that had made her cry! I'd thought as much! "Tears are shed for Joy as well as for Sorrow," sometimes, though not very often. I sat down again, and turned my Face to the Wall, with my Head resting against it, and cried bitterly. Mine were Tears of Sorrow, not of Joy!
Chapter XI.
The Old Angel.
I do not much like to look back on that Time:—I was under a Cloud; a very dark one; and saw, heard, and felt Everything under its Shadow. I did not seem to love Prue much, nor to believe she loved me; I took Pleasure in Nothing, and did Nothing well.
I wonder, now, how I could have been so silly. I am very glad People could not see into my Heart, nor guess what was passing in my tossed and fretted Mind. Oh! if our Neighbours sometimes lay to our Charge Things that we know not, how often might they lay to our Charge Things that they know not! They think us on good and pleasant Terms with them, maybe, when we are full of Envy, Jealousy, and Suspicion. They utter the careless Word and laugh the cheerful Laugh, little guessing that their lightest Look, Word and Tone are being weighed in a Balance.
I suppose my troubled Mind tinctured a Letter I wrote, at about this Time, to Gatty; for in her Reply to it, which followed very quickly, she said:
"I think I can see by your Writing that you are not well, nor in good Spirits. How earnestly do I wish, dear Mrs. Patty, you would come down to us here, and try the effect of a little Change. Yours is a very toilsome, anxious Life, though you carry it off so well; always afoot, always thinking of others! But this may be overdone, and I think you have overdone it now; so come down, pray, before you get any worse. You know your Way to the Old Angel, dear Patty! and though the Days are so very short now and the Weather cold, the Roads are in fine Order and you shall have a warm Fireside. My Mother will be more joyed to see you than I can express, and so will my Brothers and Sisters, and I need not say how acceptable your Company will be to me! My Month's Holiday is up, and I have writ to Lady Betty; but she returns no Answer, and perhaps considers me no longer her Servant. I cannot say I shall fret much if it prove so; but the Fact must shortly be ascertained; as in that Case I must seek another Service. How I should like to go to that reverend, comfortable old Mrs. Arbuthnot! Perhaps, when I send her Aprons, I might write a respectful Line, saying I am in want of a Situation. Hers would be a vastly different Service, I fancy, from my Lady Betty's. And yet, do you know, that strange Sister of mine, Pen, is certain she should like to live with my Lady! Dear Mrs. Patty, I must abruptly conclude, as we are preparing to spend the Evening at Roaring House. It is a good Step, and there will be no Moon, but we shall do well with Lantern and Pattens, and are not fear'd at Hob-Goblin.
"I depend on your coming, so name the Day; and wrap up very warm, or else come inside the Coach. Tell the Coachman to set you down at the Mile-Stone, just before he reaches the Green Hatch; and we will be there to meet you. There have been no Highway Robberies these three Weeks, and only one Overturn, so don't be afraid."
"Your Affectionate,
"Gertrude Bowerbank."
"Roaring House," slowly repeated my Father, knocking the Ashes out of his Pipe, when I had read him the greater Part of this Letter. "It must be a very queer Place, I think, that has such a queer Name.... A roaring House!—hang it if I should like to live in it!—A House that roars, or that has been accustomed to roar, very likely in the old Days of the roaring Cavaliers!—A monstrous queer Name indeed!—Aye, aye, many a Hogshead of strong Ale has been swilled in its great, rambling Kitchen by roaring Boys, I warrant ye—A great, rambling, scrambling, shambling House, with Doors and Casements loose on their Hinges, that creak in the Wind, and with loose Tiles on the great gabled Roofs, and Swallows' Nests in the great, windy Chimneys, and creaking Boards in the uneven Floors and rotten old Staircases, and dark Corners, and dark Cup-Boards, and windy Key-Holes and winding Passages. That's my Notion of Roaring House."
"Is that where Gatty lives?" said Prudence heedlessly.
"No, where she was going to drink Tea; with Lantern and Pattens," said my Father—"Didn't you hear Patty read? Ha! Time was, I wouldn't have minded being her Foot-Boy."
"But, Patty," said my dear Mother anxiously, "she does not think you are well, Love. Do you wish to go to Larkfield?"
"Why, certainly, Mother, it would be a great Treat; only I don't see how I could well be spared."
"Oh, we can spare you well enough," cries Prudence; "you won't be missed!"
"Thank you," said I abruptly; and thought I would not go.
"We will manage to spare you very well, my dear Love," said my dear Mother—"We will contrive so that you shall not be missed."
Just the same Thing, only said how differently! I thought I would go. A kind Word spoken in Season, oh! how good is it!
In short, I decided to go, for I felt I wanted a Change; and I was hourly in dread of saying in my present irritable State, something to Prudence which I should afterwards be bitterly sorry for. I saw she wanted me to go; I knew she could, if she would, supply my Place for a little While; and I hoped after a short Absence to return with a new Set of Ideas, and find all Things straight.
So I wrote to Gatty, to name my Day, and began to pack up. When Mr. Fenwick heard I was going, he looked very much surprised; but said Nothing. I was glad of the one and the other. I liked his being surprised, and I liked his making no common-place Speeches. In the mean Time, he had, I knew, addressed a Letter to Mr. Caryl; and I found, rather unexpectedly, he had got an Answer;—in this Way.
I had carried up his Chocolate, and found him with his Elbow on the Mantel-Piece, and his Thumb and Fore-Finger pinching his Chin very hard, while he frowned anxiously over a Billet he was reading.
"This is very strange,—very provoking!" cried he, looking round to me for Sympathy—"I don't know why I should trouble you to hear about it, Mrs. Patty, but I am vexed!"
"I should like to hear about it if you please, Sir," said I quietly.
"Why,—the Matter is this. I sent Something I had been writing,—Something I had taken a good deal of Pains with,—to Mr. Paul Caryl. He seemed a good deal pleased with it, took it up quite warmly, promised to put it in Train for me and give it his Patronage. A long Interval has ensued, without Anything coming of it; at length I venture to write him a gentle Reminder; and he, with a hundred thousand Protestations and Apologies, writes to say that 'how to excuse himself he knows not, but the plain Fact is, a Spark falling on my Manuscript, has utterly consumed it.'"
"I don't believe it!" cried I with sudden Passion, "I don't believe one Word of it!"
"Why, it's hard to believe—" begins Mr. Fenwick with an aggrieved Air.
"It's not to be believed!" interrupted I vehemently; "it's a Falsehood, if ever one was told! A trumped up, vamped up Story!"
"Hush, Mrs. Patty—"
"No, Sir, I can't hush, I know it's as I say: I'm sure of it! Oh, the Meanness!—"
"My dear Patty!—"
"It's abominable, Sir! He, call himself a Gentleman?"
"My dear Patty, you quite astound me by the Vehemence of your Sympathy. I can't tell you how gratefully I feel it. But your undue Warmth makes me see my own in its proper Light—I was feeling this Matter too much. It is mortifying enough, I must own, but I dare say what he tells me is true...."
"Not a Word!"
"And whether true or not, the Loss to me is the same—I shall never see my Manuscript again—"
"If I were the King or the Lord Mayor, you should!—"
"Pooh, pooh! what, when it's burnt?"
"Burnt or unburnt; or he should go to Newgate; that he should!"
"No, no, Patty; Kings and Lord Mayors don't send Poets to Newgate, for being careless of other Poets' Papers. You make me laugh at my own Annoyance, you caricature it so! I have quite cleared up, now—I shall not think of it again; unless with a Smile. But I heartily thank you for your warm Sympathy, dear Patty!"
"Ah, Sir!—"
"Yes, Patty, for your acceptable, your salutary Sympathy."
And he cordially pressed my Hand. I withdrew it, and slipped away; but with a Feeling of Consolation and Complacence to which my lone Heart had of late been a Stranger. I wiped away a Tear, and went to pack my Box.
"In a brotherly sort of Way," thought I; "he regards me kindly. Nothing more."
Oh! what awful Work it is, when Sisters are jealous of one another! The nearer the Heart, the greater the Smart. The closer the Kin, the greater the Sin. My Heart was in that State, that the least Injury, real or supposed, made me ready to cry out; and yet I must look out jealously for new Injuries, as if I had not enough already. As for Prue, she was in a most unpleasant Humour, snappish and reckless, or merry and unfeeling: laughing twice as much as there was Need, at the merest Trifle; or requiring to be spoke to twice before she heard or made Answer. There was no Confidence between us now; and if she had made any Approach to it, I should have started away from it. I was glad when she was going about, Sightseeing, with Tom; for, as she truly said, she was so soon to have all the Work to do, that she might as well take her Pleasure while she could: only it was not spoken kindly. As for Tom, he had been Home and back again: he had taken down his Monkey to his Mother, but had soon got tired, I fancy, of country Quiet, (which, he said, was as dull as a Roari-torio,) so made an Excuse to run up to Town again on some sea-faring Business. However, he had only left Home for a few Days, and meant to return to it as soon as he had squired me to the Old Angel; though I told him I had not the least Need of his Protection, and wanted Nobody but Peter to go with me. He would not have it so; but got up some Hours before Light, brisk as a Lark, to see me off, like a good-tempered Fellow as he was. He talked all Sorts of Rhodomontade by the Way, that amused me in spite of myself; and, just as we got to the Inn-yard, asked me how often I thought he had been in Love.
"Never once," said I.
"Then, there you're quite out," said he, "for I've been in Love four Times." Here a Man ran against him with a Box. "You might have put out my Eye," says Tom to him; "however, as you didn't, it's no Matter." Here we got to the Booking-office, and waited there while the dirty old Coach was being washed.
"Four Times," repeated Tom, returning to his Subject, "and I'll tell you who with."
"Oh no," said I, "pray spare me!"
"You don't guess the Name of the last, then," says he with a roguish Air.
"Patty Honeywood," doubtless, said I.
"You're not so far out, then," says he, bursting out laughing.
"Hush, Tom! People will hear you...."
"Well, and what if they do?"
"Why, I shan't put much Faith in your Passion, if you talk and laugh so openly about it."
"Ah," says he, "perhaps I may feel as much as Fellows that are more affected."
Here we got shoved about a good deal by People coming into the Office. At length, the Horn began to blow and the Bell to clang over our Heads. Tom put me inside the Coach, within which was as yet only an old Lady in a red Cardinal. Then he stood on the Step, and kept talking to me through the Window. "Yes," says he, "the Letters P. H. are indelibly tattooed on me. Why won't you give a Fellow a little Encouragement to live upon while you're away?" Here he screwed up his Face into a very mysterious Expression, as much as to say, "The old Gentlewoman can't understand me," and the next Moment was showing his good white Teeth from Ear to Ear in a broad Smile.
"They've slued up your Box now," says he, "and are getting under weigh. There's a blue Peter to the Fore."
"What's that?" said I.
"Why, the Admiral's Flag clapped to the Foremast, for sailing Orders. What I mean now, is, that your Man Peter, looking Blue with Cold, is standing at the Fore Horse's Head, and staring, as well he may, at the Postilion. Well, you won't carry much Ballast this Time. There are some Barrels of Oysters in the Hold, going down to Country Cousins that have sent up Geese and Turkeys."
"Dear me! I wish I had thought of a Barrel of Oysters," said I.
"Too late now!" said Tom. "But yet, if you wish it, I'll make a Rush for them, and come up with you along the Road. You won't make more than three Knots an Hour. Shall I?"
"Oh no, thank you. It's too late now."
"Better late than never. And apply that to me on the Present Occasion. Come, accept me! Arn't I a very good Boy, for a Sailor? You've never seen me smoke, nor drink, nor fight, nor get my Pockets picked, nor use any uncomfortable Expressions. Oh no, I can't bear to put People to the least Inconvenience. Here I am, going, going, going,—say gone!"
"Gone!" said I; and he was off the next Moment.
"A light-hearted young Sailor," says the old Gentlewoman smiling, "I shouldn't think many young Ladies would say 'No' to the Offer he made you."
The Jumbling of the Coach over the rough Stones precluded the Need of an Answer. For some Time we journeyed in the Dark; when Daylight came, I was able to amuse myself with passing Objects; and though the Cold was severe, I liked Travelling very well. We stopped to dine at Twelve o'Clock; there was a great, raw Leg of boiled Mutton, which the old Lady said was bad Meat badly killed and badly cooked. She said, however, that Travelling was improved since her young Days, when the Coach was three Days going from London to Exeter, and halted to observe the Sabbath on the Road. We safely reached the appointed Spot just before Dark, where Gatty, all Smiles and Cordiality,—and a healthy, honest-looking Boy, her Brother, were awaiting me. My Luggage was so light, we carried it between us, laughing and talking as we trudged along to Gatty's Home; which I found what she called "a good Step."
Chapter XII.
The Roaring House.
"Why, Gatty!" said I, as we plodded over the Moor, "I had no Notion you didn't live in Larkfield!"
"But we do," said she, "in Larkfield Parish. We live in the Foreign, though not in the Borough. Didn't I ever tell you that? When my Father died, we gave up our Town-House, which was twenty Pounds by the Year, and took this, which is but fifteen."
It seemed to me a lonesome Situation enough; however, a large, cheerful Family prevents any House from seeming lonely; and soon we were in a snug, well-warmed, well-lighted Room. They were all very glad to see me; Gatty's Sisters were tall, lanky Girls, nothing to compare in Point of Looks with herself; but they seemed very sociable and merry, and their Mother was a quiet, kind-spoken Woman, whom I should never have guessed for a Kinswoman, however remote, of Lady Betty's.
Gatty and I slept together, and talked a good Deal before we slept. She was quite strong and well now, but seemed more reluctant than ever to go back to Lady Betty; and I thought she seemed building on some vague Hope of getting taken by Mrs. Arbuthnot. I could see she liked her Country Home best of all, but felt she had no Right to stay.
Next Day, we took a brisk Walk over the hard frozen Ground. The Trees being leafless, and the Sky threatening Snow, I thought the Country had a dreary Look with it; but the young People were so gay that one could not be dreary in their Presence; and we came Home to our hot roast Mutton with red Noses, blue Fingers, and tip-top Spirits. We were to spend the Evening at Roaring House, which I found was where Mr. Heavitree lived. All the Afternoon the Girls were ironing clean Cuffs, and making cherry-coloured Top-knots.
Though we started at Three o'Clock, it was quite Dusk before we got to the old Farm-House; but the ruddy Light of a great Wood Fire through the Diamond-paned Casements made it look cheerfully enough. We had a hearty Country Reception at the Threshold, from Mr. Heavitree, a mighty smart, good-looking young Man, with quite the Air of a Country Gentleman; and from his Sister, Miss Clary, who was a few Years his elder, and who, I had been told as I came along, was soon to be married. There was no other Company than ourselves, except Miss Clary's Lover, and her Father the Squire, and the Village Doctor's Assistant. We spent the Evening in an old Stone Hall, with great unpainted Girders over our Heads, sundry old Brown-Bills and Bows against the Walls, and a roaring Fire on the low Hearth, which reminded me of the Name of the House. We did not want Candles for a good While; we sat about the Hearth and chatted, and had Tea, and great Slices of Plum-Cake; after that, we danced to warm our Feet, the Squire playing the Fiddle; and then we had Hide-and-Seek and Hunt-the-Slipper, to please the young Bowerbanks, and then each was called on for a Song; and after that, we told Stories of Ghosts, Murders, Robberies, hidden Treasures, and such-like, till we quite scared ourselves and one another. Then the Squire would begin one and another funny Story with, "I'll tell you what I did when I was a Boy;" and he clapped his Hands after every Song, and laughed at every Story. I never saw an old Gentleman take so hugely to young People; and when nobody was minding him, he would stand before the Fire with his Hands in his Pockets, humming "Oh, the Days when I was young!" and hem away a Sigh. We had Forfeits; and when young Mr. Heavitree was bidden, "Bow to the prettiest, kneel to the wittiest, and kiss whom he loved best," he kneeled to me, and kissed Gatty, which put her out and made her very red; and I heard her say in her quiet Way, "That's going too far." We had Turkey and Mince-Pies for Supper, and hot Elder-Wine and Toast afterwards, to fortify us, they said, against the Cold. The Squire wished he were young enough to see us Home, but since he wasn't, Jack would do as well. So Mr. Jack, that's Mr. Heavitree, went out to put on his great Coat, and came back laughing, and said the Ground was covered with Snow! And so indeed it was, but we trudged through it merrily enough. Next Day, however, the Snow fell so fast all Day, that we were kept in Doors, and Gatty worked hard at Mrs. Arbuthnot's last Apron, till she finished it. I wrote Home, it being the first Opportunity; for the Post only went out of Larkfield three Times a Week: and that was once oftener, Mrs. Bowerbank said, than when she was first married.
There was much Conjecture bestowed as to whether the Heavitrees would come in the Evening to return our Visit, according to Promise. Gatty thought they would not; all the others thought they would, and the two youngest Girls spent the best of the Morning in making Cakes. The young People came, without the Squire, and we had a pleasant Evening, but not so lively as the last, partly because the Parlour was so much smaller than the Hall, and partly because Mrs. Bowerbank was not so convivial and humorous as the Squire.
After this, came two or three Days of incessant Snow; and after the Snow, a Frost. All were glad the Snow left off falling, because we were expected at Roaring House, and Mrs. Bowerbank said she could not consent to our going if the Snow continued to fall. So we made our Preparations full early; and meantime, a Servant who had been into Larkfield and had called at the Post-Office, among other Places, (it being the principal Linen-Draper's and Tea-Grocer's of the Town,) brought Gatty a Letter from Lady Betty, which had been lying there a Day and a Half, and the Contents of which threw us all into Flurry and Dismay.
My Lady wrote, in a very few Words, by another Hand, to desire Mrs. Gatty would return to her Duties immediately, for that Madam Pompon had left.
This was a sad Blow to us all: poor Gatty could not help crying; and we all cried to keep her Company. Lady Betty would not have been much flattered, could she have seen the Reception her Letter got. "Oh, poor Gatty! poor Gatty!" resounded on all Sides; but after intermingling Kisses and Tears, she was the first to pluck up Courage, and say we were only making Things worse by grieving, and she would pack up at once, to be ready for the Morning Coach, and then think nothing more about it till the Time came. So her Sisters dispersed, to dress for our Party, and Gatty and I went up-Stairs to do the same, and pack her Box; several Times in the Course of doing which, she burst out crying; and I thought I had never beheld a Girl so loth to quit Home, nor so resolved to do her Duty.
At length we set off; and when we got to Roaring House, there was pretty much the same Thing over again, for Jokes and Laughing were exchanged for Lamentations; and the Gaiety of the Evening was completely clouded. I cannot help thinking, however, that it was Balm to Gertrude's Heart to find herself so unaffectedly sympathised with: the Squire patted her on the Shoulder several Times, and called her "poor Girl," and "dear Gatty;" Miss Clary more than once shed a Tear; and Mr. Heavitree seemed quite mute and confounded.
We prolonged our Visit as late as we could; and when we dared stay no longer, the Squire and Miss Clary insisted on adding many additional Wraps to our own; he producing some prodigious large Silk Pocket-handkerchiefs, which he tied himself over our Heads and under our Chins, like Capouchins, giving each a Kiss as a Finish; and striving moreover to persuade each of us to wear a Pair of his thick Shoes over our own, and stuff up the Difference between them with Rag and brown Paper. While urging Pen to this, his Son came in from the outer Hall, looking deadly pale; and hit his Head violently against an old Tortoiseshell-Cabinet, which he ran against without intending it.
"Measure your Distance better, Jack," says his Father, "or, what with black Eyes and red Eyes, there won't be a Pair of Eyes in the Hall worth looking at. Bless thee, Child!" very kindly to Gatty, as she stept up to bid him Good-bye. "Keep thy good Heart and good Looks, whatever thou dost;" and so, kissed her twice. Gatty dropped a Tear on his Hand; he looked at it quickly, then at her attentively; and giving her Hand a final Shake, pushed her gently away, saying, "There, go; go along; and God's Blessing go with thee."
By this Time we were all equipped. Just as Miss Clary was kissing Gatty at the Door, I noticed the Squire whisper a Word in Mr. Heavitree's Ear, which made the latter colour very much; adding to it, "You'll be a Fool, if you don't do as I say."
Now, we were all setting out from the hospitable Threshold, the Lights streaming from which illumined our Path till we reached the Gate, which Mr. Heavitree held open till we had all passed. Gatty's two younger Sisters, to show their Love and Sorrow, were each monopolizing one of her Arms and hanging upon her as they followed Joe, who was taking the Lead with a Lantern, though there was a pale Moon. Mr. Heavitree, therefore, coming up as soon as he had fastened the Gate, found me just behind the rest, and spontaneously gave me his Arm; but the next Minute, in a hurried Manner and lowered Voice said, "Dear Mrs. Patty, this once be my Friend. I've a Word to say to Gatty, and those Girls will never let me!"
I immediately said, smiling, "Trust to me;" and in another Minute had dropped his Arm and was walking off with Lucy, and in two or three Minutes more had secured Penelope too. As we walked on briskly, Pen said, "Hadn't we better stop for Gatty?" but I said, "No, she's close behind, and Mr. Heavitree wants to have a little Talk with her for the last Time." This quite satisfied the artless Girls, who soon were busy chattering about the Loss of poor Gatty, and their Fears lest she might not have a safe Journey. They pointed out to me the North Star, and Charles's Wain, and many other Stars or Planets whose Names I forget, and told me I might always know a Star from a Planet, because Stars twinkle and Planets do not. Pen even added that Sirius, the Dog-Star, is sixty Times brighter than the Sun, which I'm free to think must have been a prodigious Blunder of hers. Who can believe it? Except indeed, Children, who swallow Incredibilities without any Trouble.
Arrived at the Gate, we were surprised at Gatty's coming up to us alone; yet I am certain I had had a Glimpse of two dark Figures following us the Minute before. Directly we got in-Doors, all was Bustle. Mrs. Bowerbank was sure we must be perishing of Cold, and insisted on our going to Bed directly; and promising to send each of us a Basin of hot Gruel to eat in our Beds: Gruel well qualified with Wine, Nutmeg, and Sugar—Caudle, in Fact!
It was no bad Thing to be thus coddled and comforted like Invalids while we felt quite well; and we were soon undressing as fast as we could. All but Gatty, who came up to me when I was about half undressed, to fetch a few Things she wanted, and to tell me she was going to sleep with her Mother. This was a Surprise and Disappointment to me; I had reckoned on a good Gossip over our Gruel, and on her telling me all about Mr. Heavitree as soon as the Candle was put out. However, it seemed that the Thing had been settled, even before we started, in order that I might not be disturbed by her early Departure the next Morning; and her Box had already been carried down, and she said she wanted to spend her last Night with her Mother, so there was no more to be said. I noticed, however, as she kissed me, that her Eyelids were red with crying, but her Eyes beaming under them very bright. I said, "Good Night, but not good-bye; for I am resolved to see you off in the Morning." She said, "Oh, you must not think of it. All will be Bustle, and there will be no real Pleasure in seeing each other. I have quite got over my Trouble at going, now, and don't care at all about it." So she kissed me cheerfully, and repeated, "Good-Night and good-bye," and ran off. I was still resolved to get up in Time to see the Last of her; but I suppose the Caudle, being so strong, made me sleep heavier and later than usual; for though it was yet Dark when I got up, I found on going down Stairs that Gatty had been gone a full Hour. None of the Family had accompanied her except Joe and the Girl of all Work, who carried her Box; but Pen told me that just as she was watching Gatty out of Sight by the Light of the Lantern, some one joined them.
When Joe returned, he said their Companion had been young Mr. Heavitree, who wanted, he supposed, to be at the Beast-Market betimes, or, sure, he would not have been afoot so early. Joe added that the Snow was tremendous,—up to a Man's Knees in many Parts, and up to his Shoulders under the Banks. We thought he must be exaggerating; but, however, the poor Boy had certainly been Half his Depth in Snow himself, though he averred he had not stumbled. He said it was freezing now, and the Roads so slippery that the Horses stumbled so at every Step that they were obliged to be led—he did not believe they would make more than two Miles an Hour, and wondered when Gatty would reach London. Lucy said, "Hush," and bade him not frighten their Mother, who was just coming in; but Mrs. Bowerbank had heard it all from the Cook-Maid, and looked very grave. It turned out, that Mr. Heavitree had made Gatty go inside, and had accompanied her the first Stage. Joe's Eyes looked very round, and he said, "Oh, I wasn't to tell that; but Women will be blabbing." "Who told you not to tell, Joey?" says Lucy. "If I told you that, Miss Lucy," says he, "I should blab too." So then we sat down to Breakfast, for they were glad of the Excuse to repair their hurried Meal by keeping me Company. After that, we sat to our Needles, and Joey did Sums or pretended to do them, and drew Pictures on his Slate. Mrs. Bowerbank was a ruminative Woman of few Words, the younger Girls were rather afraid of her, and rather shy towards me, and we missed Gatty sadly. As for getting out of Doors, we were close Prisoners, and likely to be for some Days; the Weather was as bad as could be, and threatened to be worse.