Poor Orlando! unhappy Miss B.! I
could name a third person, that is not
happy neither. What a pity it is, that so many
good qualities should be blotted by imperfections!
how tender is his compassion
for this poor girl! how ingenuous his conduct!
but still he flies from her. I fear
she can never hope to recover him. There
is but
one thing, he says, which
he would not
do; the only act, perhaps, by which he could
make himself appear worthy of my mother's
esteem. The meaning of this but too plainly
shews him determined against marrying
Miss B. I don't know any thing else
which would reconcile my mother to him.
I make no doubt of her complying
with Mr. Faulkland's request in seeing
the lady: she is very compassionate, particularly
to her own sex.
What a strange resource indeed is this
of Mr. Faulkland's, to appeal to the lady
herself! What am I to judge from it, but
that the unfortunate victim, ignorant of
the treachery that was practised against
her by her wicked aunt, and that her
destroyer paid a price for her dishonour,
exculpates him from the worst part of
the guilt, and perhaps, poor easy creature,
blames her own weakness only for the
error which a concealed train of cunning
and perfidy might have led her into?
But even supposing Miss B. were generous
and candid enough (and great indeed
must be her candour and generosity)
to justify this guilty man, What would it
avail? Did not my mother tell me she
conceived a sort of horror at the bare idea
of an union between Mr. Faulkland and me?
This arises from the strong impression
made on her by the unlucky event which
blasted her own early love. Strong and
early prejudices are almost insurmountable.
My mother's piety, genuine and rational
as it is, is notwithstanding a little
tinctured with superstition; it was the
error of her education, and her good
sense has not been able to surmount it; so
that I know the universe would not induce
her to change her resolution in regard
to Mr. Faulkland. She thinks he
ought to marry Miss B. and she will ever
think so. I wish he would; for I am
sure he never can be mine. The bell
rings for breakfast; I must run down.
My mother came up to dress just now,
and stepped into my room. I returned
her the letter, and she asked me, What
I thought of Mr. Faulkland's request?
Madam, you are a better judge of the
propriety of it than I am. I shall have
no objection to seeing the unhappy lady,
said she, since it seems he has apprised
her of my knowlege of her affairs. I am
glad he has the grace to shew even so
much compassion for her; perhaps it may
be the beginning of repentance, and time
may work a thorough reformation in
him, if God spares him his life and his
senses. You see which way my good
mother's thoughts tended. I did not, she
added, intend to return to London again;
but this occasion, I think, calls upon me;
and I believe I shall go for a while, in order
to see and comfort this poor young
creature. She cannot yet be near lying
in; and I suppose she will not come to the
house Mr. Faulkland speaks of, till she
can no longer remain undiscovered at
home; so that month or two hence
will be full soon enough for me to think of
going to town.
I saw my mother rested her compliance
with Mr. Faulkland's request, merely on
one point; that of compassion to the girl.
As for the other motive, said she, the
hearing him justified from the lady's own
mouth, I am not such a novice in those
matters, but that I know when a deluding
man has once got an ascendency over a
young creature, he can coax her into
any thing. Too much truth I doubt
there is in this observation of my mother's.
But it is time to say something of lady
Grimston. My Cecilia has never seen
her, though I believe she has often heard
my mother speak of her. They are nearly
of an age, and much of the same cast
of thinking; though with this difference,
that lady Grimston is extravagantly rigid
in her notions, and precise in her manner.
She has been a widow for many
years, and lives upon a large jointure at
Grimston-hall, with as much regularity
and solemnity, as you would see in a
monastery. Her servants are all antediluvians:
I believe her coach-horses are fifty
years of age, and the very house-dog is as
(?) bald as a badger. She herself, who in her
youth never
could have been handsome,
renders herself still a more unpleasing
figure, by the oddity of her dress; you
would take her for a lady of Charles the
First's court at least. She is always dressed
out: I believe she sleeps in her cloaths,
for she comes down ruffled, and towered,
and flounced, and fardingal'd, even to
breakfast. My mother has a
very high
opinion of her, and says, she
knows more
of the world than any one of her acquaintance.
It may be so; but it must be of
the old world; for lady Grimston has
not been ten miles from her seat these
thirty years. 'Tis nine years since my
mother and she met before, and there was
a world of compliments passed between
them; though I am sure they were sincerely
glad to see each other, for they
seem to be very fond. They were companions
in youth, that season wherein the
most durable friendships are contracted.
I believe her really a very good woman;
she is pious and charitable, and does
abundance of good things in her neighbourhood;
though I cannot say I think
her amiable. There is an austerity about
he that keeps me in awe, notwithstanding
that she is extremely obliging to me, and
told my mother, I
promised to make a fine woman.
Think of such a compliment to one
of almost nineteen. My mother and she
call one another by their christian names;
and you would smile to hear the two old
ladies (begging their pardons)
Lettying
and
Dollying one another. This accounts
to me for lady Grimston's thinking
me
still a child; for I suppose she considers
herself not much past girlhood, though
to do her justice, she has not a scrap of
it in her behaviour.
