University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

When we retired to our chamber he asked me “if I
was serious in my conversation at supper, as it respected
the delay of his marriage until the arrival of my uncle—
why this arrangement was made, and why he was kept
in ignorance of it?”

Wilson was, at any time, irritable when he supposed
his honour assailed, and on the present occasion perhaps
the impatience arising from disappointment, excited those
nice feelings to a higher degree than ordinary.

I informed him that no arrangement had been made,
or most assuredly he would have been the first person
consulted, that the uncertainty of my sister's fate had
not permitted me even to think of the subject until that
moment in which I jested with her at supper.

I then suggested the propriety of postponment until
my uncle would arrive, “that it would be almost an insult
to him to treat him with so little respect—true, said
I, years have long since elapsed when you were to have
been united, and as all three are bound under the most
solemn engagements, I would be the last to infringe an
obligation so sacred; but the thing was so reasonable in
itself, and so much the desire of all parties, except himself,
who was little better than crazy, that I hoped he
would consent to wait, that it would not be more than
three or four weeks at most; that I should leave him to
take care of the ladies, and in the meantime he could indemnify
himself, measurably, by sundry tender things
which he understood better than I could tell him. Finally,
I besought him to gratify me for once, as the sacrifice
would be productive of general satisfaction to so
many deserving people.”

After a great number of Oh, Lords, Oh, heavens and
earth, and other interjectons, Wilson said “he supposed
then he must wait another age, that he had served already
as long as Jacob did for his wives.”

Next morning upon entering the parlour, we found the
ladies, who had been up sometime. They were all well
and in fine spirits except Martha, and in spite of her efforts
at gaiety her countenance was overcast with melancholy.

I took a seat by her (it is needless to say any thing
about Wilson, as every one can guess how he disposed
of himself, but I rather think he'll tell his beloved a
doleful tale of “protracted bliss, pains, and darts, and
aching hearts,”) and entered into conversation with her.
This amiable girl, who had endeared herself to me by
her humane attention to my friendless sister, independent
of her transcendant charms, was the counterpart of her
mother.

She was in height rather above the middle size, her
figure symmetry itself, her hair and eyes were black, her
skin rather fair than otherwise, her face oval, teeth
as white as ivory, but her chief beauty was her modesty,
she had the most diffident countenance I ever beheld,
and her voice was magic, soft, and melodious.

I never recollect seeing a female who was remarkably
modest that had not a soft sweet voice; they are invariably
united. A bold female has on the contrary a
loud coarse voice.

“Miss Cary, (said I,) I esteem this occasion amongst
the happiest of my life, to have it in my power to acknowledge
my obligations to you, and to assure you of
the deep sense I have of your goodness.

“Martha, nothing short of heaven can repay goodness
like yours, and that of your matchless mother.—
But at the same time it yields me inexpressible pleasure
to be able to discharge some part of the debt I owe you;
that I have it in my power to call myself your friend and
your protector.

“Yes, Martha, while I live you shall never want
either.”

“Oh, sir, you are too good,” said she, “you overrate
me beyond, far beyond, what I deserve.”

“No madam, indeed I do not; but it is you that would
underrate yourself.”

Mrs. Cary had retired to her chamber, Wilson and

Mary were sitting at some distance, too much engaged
to observe us—I took her hand, “Martha, said I, “all
is not well with you; it is with much pain I discern that
something preys upon your spirits.

“My dear girl honour me with your confidence; repose
your sorrow in my breast, and in me you will ever
find the inviolate friend, the tender brother—fear not to
trust me.”

This was too much for her sensibility; she burst into
tears: no one saw them but myself—precious drops! the
unsullied effusion of friendship, constancy, and love.

I drew out my handkerchief and wiped them away.
I arose, still holding her hand, and led her to her chamber,
where she could indulge her feelings without restraint.
Seating myself by her side in silence, and leaning
my head on my other hand I gave way—shall I say,
then I was very near if not altogether in the same situation
with Martha, that is I had not the power of speech.
I thought however, that Martha was more prodigal of
her tears as they fell in copious drops upon my hand,
which lay carelessly on her lap with hers still grasped
in it. As I sat in the manner just described, I was roused
on a sudden by a deep sigh from Martha, immediately
followed by a shivering. Seeing a cloth shawl on the
bed, I got up and wraped it round her, resuming my
seat by her side again. After wiping the tears from her
cheeks, (and my own too Martha, said I, “confide in
my honour—trust me for once—tell me the cause of your
distress, it will relieve your heart and confer a treasure
on me.—I thought last night, but I may be mistaken,
that—but—my dear girl I do not wish to urge my confidence—but
tell me am I right—Dupon.”—“We are
engaged,” said Martha, fetching a sigh that seemed to
contain her soul—“Be composed Martha, he will come,
he never can forsake worth like yours—no—he never
can, it is impossible.” “I am going to New-York, perhaps
to-morrow, I shall hear of him.” I shall make it my
business, if he is on the face of the globe.” Be assured
I shall find him.” “Oh Mr. Burlington you are too,
too generous,—Dupon,—I fear, ah I dare not say it.”
Dead you mean Martha, then it is vain to grieve for him,

the same if he is false—But how long has it.”—“Six
months, if no accident—eight at the most—I can not
think, Burlington, I can not believe Dupon is false, if
you knew him you would be of my opinion.” “I know
not what to think of it,” said I, “I know from sad experience
one thing, that our actions are controlled by
destiny, and that accidents happen to all,” it may be the
case with Dupon. Take my advice therefore Martha,
and be happy, content your self a little longer; amuse
yourself until I return, I beg of you for my sake, to rest
assured that if he is on earth I will find him. I will first
attend my uncle here, to the marriage of my sister, and
then I shall devote one year at least to your happiness.”

She had ceased shivering, but continued cold, I proposed
going to the parlour fire, but she declined, saying
that I must make her excuse at breakfast.” I called
Betsey, and desired her to bring Martha a cup of hot coffee,
and send some one to make a better fire in the chamber.

I had some apprehension that the shivering would be
followed by a fever, but I now discovered it was nothing
but a hysteric fit.

When Betty brought the coffee, I took it from her and
told her to go and hasten the word, telling Martha with
a smile, as I cooled her coffee, “that should a certain
gentleman happen to step in, he might be tempted to be
jealous. This set her to laughing, which brought Wilson
and Mary to the door, and in the same instant
breakfast was announced. I arose to attend the summons
taking Wilson away, and saying to Martha, I
would send her breakfast to her chamber.

I suspect it would have been difficult without knowing
the truth, to have persuaded Wilson that I was any thing
but Martha's humble swain.

Mrs. Cary asked if her daughter was ill. I told her
she was not, and taking her hand, led her to the eating
room. Mary soon joined us, a look enterchanged between
her and Mrs. Cary, explained that nothing of
consequence was the matter, and the old lady eat her
breakfast quite cheerful after sending her daughter at my
request to her chamber.

For myself I was far from being cheerful, the distress
of this unhappy young woman pierced me to the soul.
O heavens! if she suffers thus thought I, in her present
situation, what must she have indured, when thrown
friendless and indigent on a cruel world. Great God!
the thought, even the thought is insupportable.” A man
if he be overtaken by misfortunes, stands a double
chance of relief. If he fails with his own sex, (which
is seldom the case) he is sure almost to succeed with the
other; but a poor friendless woman has none, and more
O heavens! if she be possessed of personal advantages.
She is then the never failing victim of her own sex, and
sorry am I to say it, too often of ours.

Solomon said he had not found one good woman among
ten thousand, when he was upon earth; God only
knows how many he would find were he here now. I
do suspect it was no easy matter for a woman to impose
herself upon a man of Solomon's wisdom.

After breakfast I called Mary, and bid her see Martha
and propose for a little walk; that I wished to attend
them to the shops before I set out, so that they might have
time to get their finery made for the wedding, before I
returned.

Perhaps many of my female readers will expect Mary's
reply. I therefore beg to remind them that I have on all
occasions avoided such things in the course of this narrative,
not because I was ignorant of them, for it may
well be supposed I was not, but because I denounce such
nauseous stuff as unworthy of consideration, and highly
pernicious to my fair readers in particular. But marriage
is an honourable thing — True, but it some times
happens that courtships are not quite so.

I have always been of opinion that those tender things
that pass between two ingenuous lovers are only valuable
in proportion as they are kept inviolate from the
world.

Wilson was my bosom friend, Mary was my sister,
in the course of their long and ardent affection, I heard
and saw enough to have filled ten such volumes as this.
But to be telling what he said, and what she said, and
what he said again, would be a jargon of nonsense unworthy

the perusal of rational readers, and permit me
to observe once for all, that it is solely for the sake of my
fair readers, that I have excluded this fulsome stuff from
these memoirs. Without my aid they will (or at least
many of them will) learn those things perhaps too soon,
and repent too late.

But to return: The ladies were equipped for walking,
and had taken their seats by the parlour fire, until Wilson
was ready, who forsooth must shave and dress before
he could venture to appear, in the character of a gallant.
In the mean time, I took out my pocket book, and
threw a hundred dollars into each of the ladies' laps, nor
did I forget my friend Betty Watson, as I had learned
that was her name. This faithful and deserving young
woman was intitled to this mark of my respect on a
double account. Although there was little prospect of
Mrs. Cary's situation being such as to indemnify her for
the sacrifice she made in sharing her precarious fortune,
yet she never once showed the least disposition to leave
her; gold, therefore was a poor reward for fidelity like
hers; I had none about me, but I told her she should
have it so soon as Wilson came out of his chamber.

I then sat down by Martha, who had pulled her bunnet
over her eyes, which were red with weeping, and
taking hold of the notes which she held in her hand. I
asked if that was sufficient to equip her as brides-maid.
Before she had time to answer Wilson entered quite irresistable.
I desired him to give me ten eagles, which I
handed to Betty telling her not to consider that, or any
part of it as imbracing wages, that it was merely a
present, the reward of her fidelity to Mrs. Cary, and
that she should have her wages besides. She was about
to overwhelm me with thanks when Mary interrupted
by exclaiming, “now I am jealous of you Betsey—
Brother has put us off with paper, and given you gold.”
I cut their dispute short by telling them we would walk,
calling Betsey to come along too, that she should have
fine clothes as well as the rest. She ran for her bonnet—
we waited till she returned and all six then set out.

As we walked along, I requested Wilson, the first
thing he did, after we returned, to seek another girl to

attend on the ladies, that Betsey had waited on them
long enough, she ought to have a little rest; besides, she
has her clothes to make, and would be wanting to help
the ladies prepare for the wedding. I dare say Betsey
heard every word, for she was walking by my
side, as I could by no means suffer her who was no
longer to be considered in the light of a servant to
walk behind. I had learned from Mary, that Betsey
Watson had been brought up by Mrs. Cary; that she
was much attached to her, and was a virtuous well informed
girl, I therefore resolved to extend my protection
to her, so long as she chose to live with Mrs. Cary.

While the ladies were engaged in selecting such things
as they wanted, Wilson and myself strayed about the
doors of the respective shops, lest our presence might
embarrass Mary, in the choice of the sacred robe. At
length we were called to attend them, when I observed
that Mrs. Cary had considerable change left, as she was
stuffing it in her ridicule.—“Stop, stop, my dear madam,
that won't do said I, you must not stint yourself in
this manner, you have need of all this I know, lay every
cent of it out, don't be afraid dear mother,—should you
want a little change while I am gone call on Wilson.”

“Oh sir, said she, indeed you are—I cannot think of
imposing on you.”

“No words at all madam if you please,” said I, leading
her back to the counter.

She took a pile of fine linen, and a few other little
things.

They loaded Wilson and myself, and had a small parcel
apiece themselves.

When we arrived at home, “well Betsey, said I, let
me see what pretty things you have.”

“Oh dear me sir, I have so many things I don't know
what I shall do, I am afraid it will make me too proud”—
“combs, crapes, shawls, silk dress, cambrics, &c. &c.”

“What's this for Betsey?” (taking hold of a piece of
fine linen,) “a dress too?”

“Oh dear me sir, I can't tell you what any of 'um is,
for I am crazy with joy.”

“Tell him to mind his own business,” said Mary,

“and take them away from him, don't let him be tumbling
your things about so.” “Oh, Mrs. Touchy and I'll
see what you have,” (seizing hold of her bundle,) she
siezed it at the same instant, I pulled, and she pulled,
after I made Martha laugh, I let her take it without
looking at any thing. I would not have done so had
she been willing.

Wilson was gone to hunt a servant, Mary and Martha
retired to put a way their things, Mrs. Cary was gone
upon the same business, I called Betsey to me and giving
her some change, requested her to “go and purchase
some cakes, sweet meats, pine-apples and some good
pippins, in short every thing you see, that's good Betsey,
I shall leave you to-morrow, and I intend to feast all
this day.—If you'll be a good girl, I'll when I come
from New-York bring you a sweet heart. I thought Jinkins
would make her an excellent match, and she was so
fine a girl that I wished to see her provided for. She
blushed, and ran off to the landlord to procure a basket.

When she left me, it came into my head, to steal upon
the girls and have some more fun with Mary, as she
no doubt was engaged in arranging the wedding materials,
the door was standing ajar, I stepped along on tiptoe,
when arrived at the door I stoped and listened.

“Oh now don't this trimming look lovely? won't it
look elegant by candle light?” said Mary, “my shoes,
I am sorry they are too small, I'll have to get Betsey to
go and change them, I was in such a hurry lest brother
and Mr. Wilson should see me.”

“That was a pitty,” said I, bolting into the chamber.
Mary shrieked and gathered up her things, which were
spread over the bed.

Martha laughed heartily “I declare now brother, you
are too bad, said Mary.”

“Where is that trimming that will look so well by
candle light? I want to see how it looks by day light.”
she began to push me out of the room, as Mrs. Cary who
had heard the uproar, came to see what was the matter,
She cautioned the girls to be more careful in future.

I declared they should not engage in any sort of business
that day, that they should keep me company, as it

was the last day I should spend with them for some time,
and led them to the parlour.—Just as we were seated,
Wilson and Betsey Watson made their appearance, the
former saying he had procured a servant, she would be
there in the evening, whilst the latter brought me the
basket saying she had obeyed as near as possible, and
there was the change. “Keep it Betsey, (said I) to purchase
more when these are gone.”

“What good things are these you have here brother?”
said Mary looking in the basket.

“Go away (replied I) you would'nt let me see your
fine things, you saucy baggage, you shall not see mine,
clear out, you shall not touch a thing till Mrs. Cary has
her choice,” as she was attempting to out squabble
me in retaining a pine-apple, which she had laid hold of.
Wilson came next, I arose with them both hanging upon
me, and going to a table dislodged the contents of the
basket on it, telling the ladies that “that was terrapin
alamode,” called Mrs. Cary to come and take her
choice.

“Indeed,” said the charming woman, “Mr. Burlington
you will spoil us all.”

She began to understand my nature too well to add
any more, and she was too refined.—In short we added
wine and porter, and spent the day, in eating and drinking,
laughing and talking.

Martha became quite cheerful. Betsey skiped about like
a fawn, Mrs. Cary discharged the duties of her new
station with dignity and grace, and I acquiesced in the
general joy.

Wilson and Mary looked pleasant and tranquil, except
when my evil stars would put it into my head to enquire
whether she had exchanged those shoes yet, on these occasions,
I would receive a look from Mary, which I could
not refuse to understand.

Toward evening I directed the landlord to procure us
some music, it having been agreed upon that the ladies,
and Wilson were to sit up till 12 o'clock, that being the
hour of my departure for New-York.

The music came, 12 o'clock came, and the parting
scene came.

When the clock struck, Mary began to weep. Wilson
turned pale, Mrs. Cary looked sorrowful, and the pensive
Martha sighed, bestowing on me a look the most
earnest, the most winning I ever beheld.

“I shall not forget you Martha,” said I, taking leave
of her first, be happy dear girl till I see you again.

I next took Mrs. Cary by the hand. Betsey presented
herself next, she held out her hand, but I extended my
adieu a little farther and snatched a kiss.

Mary was sobbing on Wilson's bosom, she jumped up
however, when he told her I was waiting, and seized me
round the neck, she held me so long and so tenaciously,
that Wilson had to take her forcibly away. I pressed
his hand without speaking, and departed leaving them
all in tears.