After a night’s rest in London, less violently impressed with the loss
of her father, reconciled, if not already attached to her new
acquaintance, her thoughts pleasingly occupied with the reflection that
she was in that gay metropolis—a wild and rapturous picture of which
her active fancy had often formed—Miss Milner waked from a peaceful and
refreshing sleep, with much of that vivacity, and with all those airy
charms, which for a while had yielded their transcendent power to the
weaker influence of her filial sorrow.
Beautiful as she had appeared to Miss Woodley and to Dorriforth on the
preceding day, when she joined them this morning at breakfast,
re-possessed of her lively elegance and dignified simplicity, they
gazed at her, and at each other alternately, with astonishment!—and
Mrs. Horton, as she sat at the head of her tea-table, felt herself but
as a menial servant: such command has beauty if united with sense and
virtue. In Miss Milner it was so united. Yet let not our
over-scrupulous readers be misled, and extend their idea of her virtue
so as to magnify it beyond that which frail mortals commonly possess;
nor must they cavil, if, on a nearer view, they find it less—but let
them consider, that if she had more faults than generally belong to
others, she had likewise more temptations.
From her infancy she had been indulged in all her wishes to the extreme
of folly, and started habitually at the unpleasant voice of control.
She was beautiful; she had been too frequently told the high value of
that beauty, and thought every moment passed in wasteful idleness
during which she was not gaining some new conquest. She had a quick
sensibility, which too frequently discovered itself in the immediate
resentment of injuries or neglect. She had, besides, acquired the
dangerous character of a wit; but to which she had no real pretensions,
although the most discerning critic, hearing her converse, might fall
into this mistake. Her replies had all the effect of repartee, not
because she possessed those qualities which can properly be called wit,
but that what she said was delivered with an energy, an instantaneous
and powerful conception of the sentiment, joined with a real or a
well-counterfeited simplicity, a quick turn of the eye, and an arch
smile. Her words were but the words of others, and, like those of
others, put into common sentences; but the delivery made them pass for
wit, as grace in an ill-proportioned figure will often make it pass for
symmetry.
And now—leaving description—the reader must form a judgment of her by
her actions; by all the round of great or trivial circumstances that
shall be related.
At breakfast, which had just begun at the commencement of this chapter,
the conversation was lively on the part of Miss Milner, wise on the
part of Dorriforth, good on the part of Miss Woodley, and an endeavour
at all three on the part of Mrs. Horton. The discourse at length drew
from Mr. Dorriforth this observation:
“You have a greater resemblance of your father, Miss Milner, than I
imagined you had from report: I did not expect to find you so like
him.”
“Nor did I, Mr. Dorriforth, expect to find you any thing like what you
are.”
“No?—pray what did you expect to find me?”
“I expected to find you an elderly man, and a plain man.”
This was spoken in an artless manner, but in a tone which obviously
declared she thought her guardian young and handsome. He replied, but
not without some little embarrassment, “A plain man you shall find me
in all my actions.”
“Then your actions are to contradict your appearance.”
For in what she said, Miss Milner had the quality peculiar to wits, of
hazarding the thought that first occurs, which thought, is generally
truth. On this, he paid her a compliment in return.
“You, Miss Milner, I should suppose, must be a very bad judge of what
is plain, and what is not.”
“How so?”
“Because I am sure you will readily own you do not think yourself
handsome; and allowing that, you instantly want judgment.”
“And I would rather want judgment than beauty,” she replied, “and so I
give up the one for the other.”
With a serious face, as if proposing a very serious question,
Dorriforth continued, “And you really believe you are not handsome?”
“I should, if I consulted my own opinion, believe that I was not; but
in some respects I am like Roman Catholics; I don’t believe upon my own
understanding, but from what other people tell me.”
“And let this convince you,” replied Dorriforth, “that what we teach is
truth; for you find you would be deceived did you not trust to persons
who know better than yourself. But, my dear Miss Milner, we will talk
upon some other topic, and never resume this again—we differ in
opinion, I dare say, on one subject only, and this difference I hope
will never extend itself to any other. Therefore, let not religion be
named between us; for as I have resolved never to persecute you, in
pity be grateful, and do not persecute me.”
Miss Milner looked with surprise that any thing so lightly said, should
be so seriously received. The kind Miss Woodley ejaculated a short
prayer to herself, that heaven would forgive her young friend the
involuntary sin of religious ignorance—while Mrs. Horton, unperceived,
as she imagined, made the sign of the cross upon her forehead as a
guard against the infectious taint of heretical opinions. This pious
ceremony Miss Milner by chance observed, and now shewed such an evident
propensity to burst into a fit of laughter, that the good lady of the
house could no longer contain her resentment, but exclaimed, “God
forgive you,” with a severity so different from the idea which the
words conveyed, that the object of her anger was, on this, obliged
freely to indulge that impulse which she had in vain been struggling to
suppress; and no longer suffering under the agony of restraint, she
gave way to her humour, and laughed with a liberty so uncontrolled,
that soon left her in the room with none but the tender-hearted Miss
Woodley a witness of her folly.
“My dear Miss Woodley,” (then cried Miss Milner, after recovering
herself) “I am afraid you will not forgive me.”
“No, indeed I will not,” returned Miss Woodley.
But how unimportant, how weak, how ineffectual are _words_ in
conversation—looks and manners alone express—for Miss Woodley, with her
charitable face and mild accents, saying she would not forgive, implied
only forgiveness—while Mrs. Horton, with her enraged voice and aspect,
begging heaven to pardon the offender, palpably said, she thought her
unworthy of all pardon.