Dorriforth returned to London heavily afflicted for the loss of his
friend; and yet, perhaps, with his thoughts more engaged upon the trust
which that friend had reposed in him. He knew the life Miss Milner had
been accustomed to lead; he dreaded the repulses his admonitions might
possibly meet; and feared he had undertaken a task he was too weak to
execute—the protection of a young woman of fashion.
Mr. Dorriforth was nearly related to one of our first Catholic Peers;
his income was by no means confined, but approaching to affluence; yet
such was his attention to those in poverty, and the moderation of his
own desires, that he lived in all the careful plainness of œconomy. His
habitation was in the house of a Mrs. Horton, an elderly gentlewoman,
who had a maiden niece residing with her, not many years younger than
herself. But although Miss Woodley was thirty-five, and in person
exceedingly plain, yet she possessed such an extreme cheerfulness of
temper, and such an inexhaustible fund of good nature, that she escaped
not only the ridicule, but even the appellation of an old maid.
In this house Dorriforth had lived before the death of Mr. Horton; nor
upon that event had he thought it necessary, notwithstanding his
religious vow of celibacy, to fly the roof of two such innocent females
as Mrs. Horton and her niece. On their part, they regarded him with all
that respect and reverence which the most religious flock shews to its
pastor; and his friendly society they not only esteemed a spiritual,
but a temporal advantage, as the liberal stipend he allowed for his
apartments and board, enabled them to continue in the large and
commodious house which they had occupied during the life of Mr. Horton.
Here, upon Mr. Dorriforth’s return from his journey, preparations were
made for the reception of his ward; her father having made it his
request that she might, for a time at least, reside in the same house
with her guardian, receive the same visits, and cultivate the
acquaintance of his companions and friends.
When the will of her father was made known to Miss Milner, she
submitted, without the least reluctance, to all he had required. Her
mind, at that time impressed with the most poignant sorrow for his
loss, made no distinction of happiness that was to come; and the day
was appointed, with her silent acquiescence, when she was to arrive in
London, and there take up her abode, with all the retinue of a rich
heiress.
Mrs. Horton was delighted with the addition this acquisition to her
family was likely to make to her annual income, and style of living.
The good-natured Miss Woodley was overjoyed at the expectation of their
new guest, yet she herself could not tell why—but the reason was, that
her kind heart wanted a more ample field for its benevolence; and now
her thoughts were all pleasingly employed how she should render, not
only the lady herself, but even all her attendants, happy in their new
situation.
The reflections of Dorriforth were less agreeably engaged—Cares,
doubts, fears, possessed his mind—and so forcibly possessed it, that
upon every occasion which offered, he would inquisitively endeavour to
gain intelligence of his ward’s disposition before he saw her; for he
was, as yet, a stranger not only to the real propensities of her mind,
but even to her person; a constant round of visits having prevented his
meeting her at her father’s, the very few times he had been at his
house, since her final return from school. The first person whose
opinion he, with all proper reserve, asked concerning Miss Milner, was
Lady Evans, the widow of a Baronet, who frequently visited at Mrs.
Horton’s.
But that the reader may be interested in what Dorriforth says and does,
it is necessary to give some description of his person and manners. His
figure was tall and elegant, but his face, except a pair of dark bright
eyes, a set of white teeth, and a graceful fall in his clerical curls
of brown hair, had not one feature to excite admiration—yet such a
gleam of sensibility was diffused over each, that many people mistook
his face for handsome, and all were more or less attracted by it—in a
word, the charm, that is here meant to be described, is a
_countenance_—on _his_ you read the feelings of his heart—saw all its
inmost workings—the quick pulses that beat with hope and fear, or the
gentle ones that moved in a more equal course of patience and
resignation. On this countenance his thoughts were pourtrayed; and as
his mind was enriched with every virtue that could make it valuable, so
was his face adorned with every expression of those virtues—and they
not only gave a lustre to his aspect, but added a harmonious sound to
all he uttered; it was persuasive, it was perfect eloquence; whilst in
his looks you beheld his thoughts moving with his lips, and ever
coinciding with what he said.
With one of those interesting looks which revealed the anxiety of his
heart, and yet with that graceful restraint of all gesticulation, for
which he was remarkable, even in his most anxious concerns, he
addressed Lady Evans, who had called on Mrs. Horton to hear and to
request the news of the day: “Your Ladyship was at Bath last spring—you
know the young lady to whom I have the honour of being appointed
guardian. Pray,”—
He was earnestly intent upon asking a question, but was prevented by
the person interrogated.
“Dear Mr. Dorriforth, do not ask me any thing about Miss Milner—when I
saw her she was very young: though indeed that is but three months ago,
and she can’t be much older now.”
“She is eighteen,” answered Dorriforth, colouring with regret at the
doubts which this lady had increased, but not inspired.
“And she is very beautiful, that I can assure you,” said Lady Evans.
“Which I call no qualification,” said Dorriforth, rising from his chair
in evident uneasiness.
“But where there is nothing else, let me tell you, beauty is
something.”
“Much worse than nothing, in my opinion,” returned Dorriforth.
“But now, Mr. Dorriforth, do not from what I have said, frighten
yourself, and imagine your ward worse than she really is—all I know of
her, is merely, that she’s young, idle, indiscreet, and giddy, with
half a dozen lovers in her suite; some coxcombs, others men of
gallantry, some single, and others married.”
Dorriforth started. “For the first time of my life,” cried he with a
manly sorrow, “I wish I had never known her father.”
“Nay,” said Mrs. Horton, who expected every thing to happen just as she
wished, (for neither an excellent education, the best company, or long
experience had been able to cultivate or brighten this good lady’s
understanding,) “Nay,” said she, “I am sure, Mr. Dorriforth, you will
soon convert her from all her evil ways.”
“Dear me,” returned Lady Evans, “I am sure I never meant to hint at any
thing evil—and for what I have said, I will give you up my authors if
you please; for they were not observations of my own; all I do is to
mention them again.”
The good-natured Miss Woodley, who sat working at the window, an
humble, but an attentive listener to this discourse, ventured here to
say exactly six words: “Then don’t mention them any more.”
“Let us change the subject,” said Dorriforth.
“With all my heart,” cried Lady Evans; “and I am sure it will be to the
young lady’s advantage.”
“Is Miss Milner tall or short?” asked Mrs. Horton, still wishing for
farther information.
“Oh, tall enough of all conscience,” returned she; “I tell you again
that no fault can be found with her person.”
“But if her mind is defective”—exclaimed Dorriforth, with a sigh——
“That may be improved as well as the person,” cried Miss Woodley.
“No, my dear,” returned Lady Evans, “I never heard of a pad to make
straight an ill-shapen disposition.”
“Oh, yes,” answered Miss Woodley, “good company, good books,
experience, and the misfortunes of others, may have more power to form
the mind to virtue, than”——
Miss Woodley was not permitted to proceed, for Lady Evans rising
hastily from her seat, cried, “I must be gone—I have an hundred people
waiting for me at home—besides, were I inclined to hear a sermon, I
should desire Mr. Dorriforth to preach, and not you.”
Just then Mrs. Hillgrave was announced. “And here is Mrs. Hillgrave,”
continued she—“I believe, Mrs. Hillgrave, you know Miss Milner, don’t
you? The young lady who has lately lost her father.”
Mrs. Hillgrave was the wife of a merchant who had met with severe
losses: as soon as the name of Miss Milner was uttered, she lifted up
her hands, and the tears started in her eyes.
“There!” cried Lady Evans, “I desire you will give your opinion of her,
and I am sorry I cannot stay to hear it.” Saying this, she curtsied and
took her leave.
When Mrs. Hillgrave had been seated a few minutes, Mrs. Horton, who
loved information equally with the most inquisitive of her sex, asked
the new visitor—“If she might be permitted to know, why, at the mention
of Miss Milner, she had seemed so much affected?”
This question exciting the fears of Dorriforth, he turned anxiously
round, attentive to the reply.
“Miss Milner,” answered she, “has been my benefactress and the best I
ever had.” As she spoke, she took out her handkerchief and wiped away
the tears that ran down her face.
“How so?” cried Dorriforth eagerly, with his own eyes moistened with
joy, nearly as much as her’s were with gratitude.
“My husband, at the commencement of his distresses,” replied Mrs.
Hillgrave, “owed a sum of money to her father, and from repeated
provocations, Mr. Milner was determined to seize upon all our
effects—his daughter, however, by her intercessions, procured us time,
in order to discharge the debt; and when she found _that_ time was
insufficient, and her father no longer to be dissuaded from his
intention, she secretly sold some of her most valuable ornaments to
satisfy his demand, and screen us from its consequences.”
Dorriforth, pleased at this recital, took Mrs. Hillgrave by the hand,
and told her, “she should never want a friend.”
“Is Miss Milner tall, or short?” again asked Mrs. Horton, fearing, from
the sudden pause which had ensued, the subject should be dropped.
“I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Hillgrave.
“Is she handsome, or ugly?”
“I really can’t tell.”
“It is very strange you should not take notice!”
“I did take notice, but I cannot depend upon my own judgment—to me she
appeared beautiful as an angel; but perhaps I was deceived by the
beauties of her disposition.”