Mrs. Morland, a polished and accomplished woman, was the widow of
a distinguished senator from one of the western states, of which,
also, her husband had twice filled the office of governor. Her
daughter having completed her education at the best boarding-school
in Philadelphia, and her son being about to graduate at Princeton,
the mother had planned with her children a tour to Niagara and
the lakes, returning by way of Boston. On leaving Philadelphia,
Mrs. Morland and the delighted Caroline stopped at Princeton to be
present at the annual commencement, and had the happiness of seeing
their beloved Edward receive his diploma as bachelor of arts;
after hearing him deliver, with great applause, an oration on the
beauties of the American character. College youths are very prone
to treat on subjects that imply great experience of the world.
But Edward Morland was full of kind feeling for everything and
everybody; and his views of life had hitherto been tinted with a
perpetual rose-color.
Mrs. Morland, not depending altogether upon the celebrity of her
late husband, and wishing that her children should see specimens
of the best society in the northern cities, had left home with
numerous letters of introduction. But when they arrived at New
York, she found to her great regret, that having unpacked and
taken out her small traveling desk, during her short stay in
Philadelphia, she had strangely left it behind in the closet
of her room at the hotel. In this desk were deposited all her
letters, except two which had been offered to her by friends in
Philadelphia. The young people, impatient to see the wonders of
Niagara, had entreated her to stay but a day or two in the city of
New York, and thought these two letters would be quite sufficient
for the present. In the meantime she wrote back to the hotel,
requesting that the missing desk should be forwarded to New York as
soon as possible.
On the morning after their arrival at the great commercial
metropolis of America, the Morland family took a carriage to ride
round through the principal parts of the city, and to deliver their
two letters at the houses to which they were addressed, and which
were both situated in the region that lies between the upper part
of Broadway and the North River. In one of the most fashionable
streets they found the elegant mansion of Mrs. St. Leonard; but
on stopping at the door, were informed that its mistress was not
at home. They then left the introductory letter (which they had
prepared for this mischance, by enclosing it in an envelope with
a card), and proceeding to another street considerably farther
up, they arrived at the dwelling of the Watkinson family, to the
mistress of which the other Philadelphia letter was directed. It
was one of a large block of houses all exactly alike, and all shut
up from top to bottom, according to a custom more prevalent in New
York than in any other city.
Here they were also unsuccessful; the servant who came to the
door telling them that the ladies were particularly engaged and
could see no company. So they left their second letter and card
and drove off, continuing their ride till they reached the Croton
water works, which they quitted the carriage to see and admire. On
returning to the hotel, with the intention after an hour or two of
rest to go out again, and walk till near dinner-time, they found
waiting them a note from Mrs. Watkinson, expressing her regret that
she had not been able to see them when they called; and explaining
that her family duties always obliged her to deny herself the
pleasure of receiving morning visitors, and that her servants had
general orders to that effect. But she requested their company for
that evening (naming nine o’clock as the hour), and particularly
desired an immediate answer.
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Morland, “she intends asking some of her
friends to meet us, in case we accept the invitation; and therefore
is naturally desirous of a reply as soon as possible. Of course
we will not keep her in suspense. Mrs. Denham, who volunteered
the letter, assured me that Mrs. Watkinson was one of the most
estimable women in New York, and a pattern to the circle in which
she moved. It seems that Mr. Denham and Mr. Watkinson are connected
in business. Shall we go?”
The young people assented, saying they had no doubt of passing a
pleasant evening.
The billet of acceptance having been written, it was sent off
immediately, entrusted to one of the errand-goers belonging to the
hotel, that it might be received in advance of the next hour for
the dispatch-post—and Edward Morland desired the man to get into
an omnibus with the note that no time might be lost in delivering
it. “It is but right”—said he to his mother—“that we should give
Mrs. Watkinson an ample opportunity of making her preparations, and
sending round to invite her friends.”
“How considerate you are, dear Edward”—said Caroline—“always so
thoughtful of every one’s convenience. Your college friends must
have idolized you.”
“No”—said Edward—“they called me a prig.” Just then a remarkably
handsome carriage drove up to the private door of the hotel. From
it alighted a very elegant woman, who in a few moments was ushered
into the drawing-room by the head waiter, and on his designating
Mrs. Morland’s family, she advanced and gracefully announced
herself as Mrs. St. Leonard. This was the lady at whose house they
had left the first letter of introduction. She expressed regret at
not having been at home when they called; but said that on finding
their letter, she had immediately come down to see them, and to
engage them for the evening. “Tonight”—said Mrs. St. Leonard—“I
expect as many friends as I can collect for a summer party. The
occasion is the recent marriage of my niece, who with her husband
has just returned from their bridal excursion, and they will be
soon on their way to their residence in Baltimore. I think I can
promise you an agreeable evening, as I expect some very delightful
people, with whom I shall be most happy to make you acquainted.”
Edward and Caroline exchanged glances, and could not refrain from
looking wistfully at their mother, on whose countenance a shade of
regret was very apparent. After a short pause she replied to Mrs.
St. Leonard—“I am truly sorry to say that we have just answered in
the affirmative a previous invitation for this very evening.”
“I am indeed disappointed”—said Mrs. St. Leonard, who had been
looking approvingly at the prepossessing appearance of the two
young people. “Is there no way in which you can revoke your
compliance with this unfortunate first invitation—at least, I am
sure, it is unfortunate for me. What a vexatious _contretemps_ that
I should have chanced to be out when you called; thus missing the
pleasure of seeing you at once, and securing that of your society
for this evening? The truth is, I was disappointed in some of the
preparations that had been sent home this morning, and I had to go
myself and have the things rectified, and was detained away longer
than I expected. May I ask to whom you are engaged this evening?
Perhaps I know the lady—if so, I should be very much tempted to go
and beg you from her.”
“The lady is Mrs. John Watkinson”—replied Mrs. Morland—“most
probably she will invite some of her friends to meet us.”
“That of course”—answered Mrs. St. Leonard—“I am really very
sorry—and I regret to say that I do not know her at all.”
“We shall have to abide by our first decision,” said Mrs. Morland.
“By Mrs. Watkinson, mentioning in her note the hour of nine, it
is to be presumed she intends asking some other company. I cannot
possibly disappoint her. I can speak feelingly as to the annoyance
(for I have known it by my own experience) when after inviting a
number of my friends to meet some strangers, the strangers have
sent an excuse almost at the eleventh hour. I think no inducements,
however strong, could tempt me to do so myself.”
“I confess that you are perfectly right,” said Mrs. St. Leonard.
“I see you must go to Mrs. Watkinson. But can you not divide the
evening, by passing a part of it with her and then finishing with
me?”
At this suggestion the eyes of the young people sparkled, for they
had become delighted with Mrs. St. Leonard, and imagined that a
party at her house must be every way charming. Also, parties were
novelties to both of them.
“If possible we will do so,” answered Mrs. Morland, “and with what
pleasure I need not assure you. We leave New York to-morrow, but we
shall return this way in September, and will then be exceedingly
happy to see more of Mrs. St. Leonard.”
After a little more conversation Mrs. St. Leonard took her leave,
repeating her hope of still seeing her new friends at her house
that night; and enjoining them to let her know as soon as they
returned to New York on their way home.
Edward Morland handed her to her carriage, and then joined his
mother and sister in their commendations of Mrs. St. Leonard,
with whose exceeding beauty were united a countenance beaming
with intelligence, and a manner that put every one at their ease
immediately.
“She is an evidence,” said Edward, “how superior our women of
fashion are to those of Europe.”
“Wait, my dear son,” said Mrs. Morland, “till you have been in
Europe, and had an opportunity of forming an opinion on that point
(as on many others) from actual observation. For my part, I believe
that in all civilized countries the upper classes of people are
very much alike, at least in their leading characteristics.”
“Ah! here comes the man that was sent to Mrs. Watkinson,” said
Caroline Morland. “I hope he could not find the house and has
brought the note back with him. We shall then be able to go at
first to Mrs. St. Leonard’s, and pass the whole evening there.”
The man reported that he _had_ found the house, and had delivered
the note into Mrs. Watkinson’s own hands, as she chanced to be
crossing the entry when the door was opened; and that she read it
immediately, and said “Very well.”
“Are you certain that you made no mistake in the house,” said
Edward, “and that you really _did_ give it to Mrs. Watkinson?”
“And it’s quite sure I am, sir,” replied the man, “when I first
came over from the ould country I lived with them awhile, and
though when she saw me to-day, she did not let on that she
remembered my doing that same, she could not help calling me James.
Yes, the rale words she said when I handed her the billy-dux was,
‘Very well, James.’”
“Come, come,” said Edward, when they found themselves alone, “let
us look on the bright side. If we do not find a large party at Mrs.
Watkinson’s, we may in all probability meet some very agreeable
people there, and enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul.
We may find the Watkinson house so pleasant as to leave it with
regret even for Mrs. St. Leonard’s.”
“I do not believe Mrs. Watkinson is in fashionable society,” said
Caroline, “or Mrs. St. Leonard would have known her. I heard some
of the ladies here talking last evening of Mrs. St. Leonard, and
I found from what they said that she is among the _élite_ of the
_lite_.”
“Even if she is,” observed Mrs. Morland, “are polish of manners and
cultivation of mind confined exclusively to persons of that class?”
“Certainly not,” said Edward, “the most talented and refined youth
at our college, and he in whose society I found the greatest
pleasure, was the son of a bricklayer.”
In the ladies’ drawing-room, after dinner, the Morlands heard a
conversation between several of the female guests, who all seemed
to know Mrs. St. Leonard very well by reputation, and they talked
of her party that was to “come off” on this evening.
“I hear,” said one lady, “that Mrs. St. Leonard is to have an
unusual number of lions.”
She then proceeded to name a gallant general, with his elegant wife
and accomplished daughter; a celebrated commander in the navy; two
highly distinguished members of Congress, and even an ex-president.
Also several of the most eminent among the American literati, and
two first-rate artists.
Edward Morland felt as if he could say, “Had I three ears I’d hear
thee.”
“Such a woman as Mrs. St. Leonard can always command the best lions
that are to be found,” observed another lady.
“And then,” said a third, “I have been told that she has such
exquisite taste in lighting and embellishing her always elegant
rooms. And her supper table, whether for summer or winter parties,
is so beautifully arranged; all the viands are so delicious, and
the attendance of the servants so perfect—and Mrs. St. Leonard does
the honors with so much ease and tact.”
“Some friends of mine that visit her,” said a fourth lady,
“describe her parties as absolute perfection. She always manages
to bring together those persons that are best fitted to enjoy each
other’s conversation. Still no one is overlooked or neglected. Then
everything at her reunions is so well proportioned—she has just
enough of music, and just enough of whatever amusement may add to
the pleasure of her guests; and still there is no appearance of
design or management on her part.”
“And better than all,” said the lady who had spoken firsts “Mrs.
St. Leonard is one of the kindest, most generous, and most
benevolent of women—she does good in every possible way.”
“I can listen no longer,” said Caroline to Edward, rising to
change her seat. “If I hear any more I shall absolutely hate the
Watkinsons. How provoking that they should have sent us the first
invitation. If we had only thought of waiting till we could hear
from Mrs. St. Leonard!”
“For shame, Caroline,” said her brother, “how can you talk so of
persons you have never seen, and to whom you ought to feel grateful
for the kindness of their invitation; even if it has interfered
with another party, that I must confess seems to offer unusual
attractions. Now I have a presentiment that we shall find the
Watkinson part of the evening very enjoyable.”
As soon as tea was over, Mrs. Morland and her daughter repaired to
their toilettes. Fortunately, fashion as well as good taste, has
decided that, at a summer party, the costume of the ladies should
never go beyond an elegant simplicity. Therefore our two ladies
in preparing for their intended appearance at Mrs. St. Leonard’s,
were enabled to attire themselves in a manner that would not seem
out of place in the smaller company they expected to meet at the
Watkinsons. Over an under-dress of lawn, Caroline Morland put on a
white organdy trimmed with lace, and decorated with bows of pink
ribbon. At the back of her head was a wreath of fresh and beautiful
pink flowers, tied with a similar ribbon. Mrs. Morland wore a black
grenadine over a satin, and a lace cap trimmed with white.
It was but a quarter past nine o’clock when their carriage stopped
at the Watkinson door. The front of the house looked very dark.
Not a ray gleamed through the Venetian shutters, and the glimmer
beyond the fan-light over the door was almost imperceptible. After
the coachman had rung several times, an Irish girl opened the door,
cautiously (as Irish girls always do), and admitted them into the
entry, where one light only was burning in a branch lamp. “Shall
we go upstairs?” said Mrs. Morland. “And what for would ye go
upstairs?” said the girl in a pert tone. “It’s all dark there, and
there’s no preparations. Ye can lave your things here a-hanging
on the rack. It is a party ye’re expecting? Blessed are them what
expects nothing.”
The sanguine Edward Morland looked rather blank at this
intelligence, and his sister whispered to him, “We’ll get off to
Mrs. St. Leonard’s as soon as we possibly can. When did you tell
the coachman to come for us?”
“At half past ten,” was the brother’s reply.
“Oh! Edward, Edward!” she exclaimed, “And I dare say he will not be
punctual. He may keep us here till eleven.”
“_Courage, mes enfants_,” said their mother, “_et parlez plus
doucement_.”
The girl then ushered them into the back parlor, saying, “Here’s
the company.”
The room was large and gloomy. A checquered mat covered the floor,
and all the furniture was encased in striped calico covers, and
the lamps, mirrors, etc. concealed under green gauze. The front
parlor was entirely dark, and in the back apartment was no other
light than a shaded lamp on a large centre table, round which
was assembled a circle of children of all sizes and ages. On a
backless, cushionless sofa sat Mrs. Watkinson, and a young lady,
whom she introduced as her daughter Jane. And Mrs. Morland in
return presented Edward and Caroline.
“Will you take the rocking-chair, ma’am?” inquired Mrs. Watkinson.
Mrs. Morland declining the offer, the hostess took it herself,
and see-sawed on it nearly the whole time. It was a very awkward,
high-legged, crouch-backed rocking-chair, and shamefully unprovided
with anything in the form of a footstool.
“My husband is away, at Boston, on business,” said Mrs. Watkinson.
“I thought at first, ma’am, I should not be able to ask you here
this evening, for it is not our way to have company in his absence;
but my daughter Jane over-persuaded me to send for you.”
“What a pity,” thought Caroline.
“You must take us as you find us, ma’am,” continued Mrs. Watkinson.
“We use no ceremony with anybody; and our rule is never to put
ourselves out of the way. We do not give parties [looking at the
dresses of the ladies]. Our first duty is to our children, and we
cannot waste our substance on fashion and folly. They’ll have cause
to thank us for it when we die.”
Something like a sob was heard from the centre table, at which the
children were sitting, and a boy was seen to hold his handkerchief
to his face.
“Joseph, my child,” said his mother, “do not cry. You have no idea,
ma’am, what an extraordinary boy that is. You see how the bare
mention of such a thing as our deaths has overcome him.”
There was another sob behind the handkerchief, and the Morlands
thought it now sounded very much like a smothered laugh.
“As I was saying, ma’am,” continued Mrs. Watkinson, “we never give
parties. We leave all sinful things to the vain and foolish. My
daughter Jane has been telling me, that she heard this morning of
a party that is going on to-night at the widow St. Leonard’s. It
is only fifteen years since her husband died. He was carried off
with a three days’ illness, but two months after they were married.
I have had a domestic that lived with them at the time, so I know
all about it. And there she is now, living in an elegant house,
and riding in her carriage, and dressing and dashing, and giving
parties, and enjoying life, as she calls it. Poor creature, how I
pity her! Thank heaven, nobody that I know goes to her parties. If
they did I would never wish to see them again in my house. It is
an encouragement to folly and nonsense—and folly and nonsense are
sinful. Do not you think so, ma’am?”
“If carried too far they may certainly become so,” replied Mrs.
Morland.
“We have heard,” said Edward, “that Mrs. St. Leonard, though one
of the ornaments of the gay world, has a kind heart, a beneficent
spirit and a liberal hand.”
“I know very little about her,” replied Mrs. Watkinson, drawing up
her head, “and I have not the least desire to know any more. It is
well she has no children; they’d be lost sheep if brought up in her
fold. For my part, ma’am,” she continued, turning to Mrs. Morland,
“I am quite satisfied with the quiet joys of a happy home. And no
mother has the least business with any other pleasures. My innocent
babes know nothing about plays, and balls, and parties; and they
never shall. Do they look as if they had been accustomed to a life
of pleasure?”
They certainly did not! for when the Morlands took a glance at
them, they thought they had never seen youthful faces that were
less gay, and indeed less prepossessing.
There was not a good feature or a pleasant expression among
them all. Edward Morland recollected his having often read
“that childhood is always lovely.” But he saw that the juvenile
Watkinsons were an exception to the rule.
“The first duty of a mother is to her children,” repeated Mrs.
Watkinson. “Till nine o’clock, my daughter Jane and myself are
occupied every evening in hearing the lessons that they have
learned for to-morrow’s school. Before that hour we can receive no
visitors, and we never have company to tea, as that would interfere
too much with our duties. We had just finished hearing these
lessons when you arrived. Afterwards the children are permitted to
indulge themselves in rational play, for I permit no amusement that
is not also instructive. My children are so well trained, that even
when alone their sports are always serious.”
Two of the boys glanced slyly at each other, with what Edward
Morland comprehended as an expression of pitch-penny and marbles.
“They are now engaged at their game of astronomy,” continued Mrs.
Watkinson. “They have also a sort of geography cards, and a set of
mathematical cards. It is a blessed discovery, the invention of
these educationary games; so that even the play-time of children
can be turned to account. And you have no idea, ma’am, how they
enjoy them.”
Just then the boy Joseph rose from the table, and stalking up to
Mrs. Watkinson, said to her, “Mamma, please to whip me.”
At this unusual request the visitors looked much amazed, and Mrs.
Watkinson replied to him, “Whip you, my best Joseph—for what cause?
I have not seen you do anything wrong this evening, and you know my
anxiety induces me to watch my children all the time.”
“You could not see me,” answered Joseph, “for I have not _done_
anything very wrong. But I have had a bad thought, and you know Mr.
Ironrule says that a fault imagined is just as wicked as a fault
committed.”
“You see, ma’am, what a good memory he has,” said Mrs. Watkinson
aside to Mrs. Morland. “But my best Joseph, you make your mother
tremble. What fault have you imagined? What was your bad thought?”
“Ay,” said another boy, “what’s your thought like?”
“My thought,” said Joseph, “was ‘Confound all astronomy, and I
could see the man hanged that made this game.’”
“Oh! my child,” exclaimed the mother, stopping her ears, “I am
indeed shocked. I am glad you repented so immediately.”
“Yes,” returned Joseph, “but I am afraid my repentance won’t last.
If I am not whipped, I may have these bad thoughts whenever I play
at astronomy, and worse still at the geography game. Whip me, ma,
and punish me as I deserve. There’s the rattan in the corner: I’ll
bring it to you myself.”
“Excellent boy!” said his mother. “You know I always pardon my
children when they are so candid as to confess their faults.”
“So you do,” said Joseph, “but a whipping will cure me better.”
“I cannot resolve to punish so conscientious a child,” said Mrs.
Watkinson.
“Shall I take the trouble off your hands?” inquired Edward, losing
all patience in his disgust at the sanctimonious hypocrisy of this
young Blifil. “It is such a rarity for a boy to request a whipping,
that so remarkable a desire ought by all means to be gratified.”
Joseph turned round and made a face at him.
“Give me the rattan,” said Edward, half laughing, and offering to
take it out of his hand. “I’ll use it to your full satisfaction.”
The boy thought it most prudent to stride off and return to the
table, and ensconce himself among his brothers and sisters; some of
whom were staring with stupid surprise; others were whispering and
giggling in the hope of seeing Joseph get a real flogging.
Mrs. Watkinson having bestowed a bitter look on Edward, hastened to
turn the attention of his mother to something else. “Mrs. Morland,”
said she, “allow me to introduce you to my youngest hope.” She
pointed to a sleepy boy about five years old, who with head thrown
back and mouth wide open, was slumbering in his chair.
Mrs. Watkinson’s children were of that uncomfortable species who
never go to bed; at least never without all manner of resistance.
All her boasted authority was inadequate to compel them; they never
would confess themselves sleepy; always wanted to “sit up,” and
there was a nightly scene of scolding, coaxing, threatening and
manoeuvring to get them off.
“I declare,” said Mrs. Watkinson, “dear Benny is almost asleep.
Shake him up, Christopher. I want him to speak a speech. His
schoolmistress takes great pains in teaching her little pupils to
speak, and stands up herself and shows them how.”
The child having been shaken up hard (two or three others helping
Christopher), rubbed his eyes and began to whine. His mother went
to him, took him on her lap, hushed him up, and began to coax him.
This done, she stood him on his feet before Mrs. Morland, and
desired him to speak a speech for the company. The child put his
thumb into his mouth, and remained silent.
“Ma,” said Jane Watkinson, “you had better tell him what speech to
speak.”
“Speak Cato or Plato,” said his mother. “Which do you call it? Come
now, Benny—how does it begin? ‘You are quite right and reasonable,
Plato.’ That’s it.”
“Speak Lucius,” said his sister Jane. “Come now, Benny—say ‘your
thoughts are turned on peace.’”
The little boy looked very much as if they were _not_, and as if
meditating an outbreak.
“No, no!” exclaimed Christopher, “let him say Hamlet. Come now,
Benny—‘To be or not to be.’”
“It ain’t to be at all,” cried Benny, “and I won’t speak the least
bit of it for any of you. I hate that speech!”
“Only see his obstinacy,” said the solemn Joseph. “And is he to be
given up to?”
“Speak anything, Benny,” said Mrs. Watkinson, “anything so that it
is only a speech.”
All the Watkinson voices now began to clamor violently at the
obstinate child—“Speak a speech! speak a speech! speak a speech!”
But they had no more effect than the reiterated exhortations with
which nurses confuse the poor heads of babies, when they require
them to “shake a day-day—shake a day-day!”
Mrs. Morland now interfered, and begged that the sleepy little boy
might be excused; on which he screamed out that “he wasn’t sleepy
at all, and would not go to bed ever.”
“I never knew any of my children behave so before,” said Mrs.
Watkinson. “They are always models of obedience, ma’am. A look
is sufficient for them. And I must say that they have in every
way profited by the education we are giving them. It is not our
way, ma’am, to waste our money in parties and fooleries, and
fine furniture and fine clothes, and rich food, and all such
abominations. Our first duty is to our children, and to make them
learn everything that is taught in the schools. If they go wrong,
it will not be for want of education. Hester, my dear, come and
talk to Miss Morland in French.”
Hester (unlike her little brother that would not speak a speech)
stepped boldly forward, and addressed Caroline Morland with:
“_Parlez-vous Français, mademoiselle? Comment se va madame votre
mère? Aimez-vous la musique? Aimez-vous la danse? Bon jour—bon
soir—bon repos. Comprenez-vous?_”
To this tirade, uttered with great volubility, Miss Morland made no
other reply than, “_Oui—je comprens_.”
“Very well, Hester—very well indeed,” said Mrs. Watkinson. “You
see, ma’am,” turning to Mrs. Morland, “how very fluent she is in
French; and she has only been learning eleven quarters.”
After considerable whispering between Jane and her mother, the
former withdrew, and sent in by the Irish girl a waiter with a
basket of soda biscuit, a pitcher of water, and some glasses. Mrs.
Watkinson invited her guests to consider themselves at home and
help themselves freely, saying: “We never let cakes, sweetmeats,
confectionery, or any such things enter the house, as they would be
very unwholesome for the children, and it would be sinful to put
temptation in their way. I am sure, ma’am, you will agree with me
that the plainest food is the best for everybody. People that want
nice things may go to parties for them; but they will never get any
with me.”
When the collation was over, and every child provided with a
biscuit, Mrs. Watkinson said to Mrs. Morland: “Now, ma’am, you
shall have some music from my daughter Jane, who is one of Mr.
Bangwhanger’s best scholars.”
Jane Watkinson sat down to the piano and commenced a powerful piece
of six mortal pages, which she played out of time and out of tune;
but with tremendous force of hands; notwithstanding which, it had,
however, the good effect of putting most of the children to sleep.
To the Morlands the evening had seemed already five hours long.
Still it was only half past ten when Jane was in the midst of her
piece. The guests had all tacitly determined that it would be best
not to let Mrs. Watkinson know their intention to go directly from
her house to Mrs. St. Leonard’s party; and the arrival of their
carriage would have been the signal of departure, even if Jane’s
piece had not reached its termination. They stole glances at the
clock on the mantel. It wanted but a quarter of eleven, when Jane
rose from the piano, and was congratulated by her mother on the
excellence of her music. Still no carriage was heard to stop; no
doorbell was heard to ring. Mrs. Morland expressed her fears that
the coachman had forgotten to come for them.
“Has he been paid for bringing you here?” asked Mrs. Watkinson.
“I paid him when we came to the door,” said Edward. “I thought
perhaps he might want the money for some purpose before he came for
us.”
“That was very kind in you, sir,” said Mrs. Watkinson, “but not
very wise. There’s no dependence on any coachman; and perhaps as he
may be sure of business enough this rainy night he may never come
at all—being already paid for bringing you here.”
Now, the truth was that the coachman _had_ come at the appointed
time, but the noise of Jane’s piano had prevented his arrival being
heard in the back parlor. The Irish girl had gone to the door when
he rang the bell, and recognized in him what she called “an ould
friend.” Just then a lady and gentleman who had been caught in
the rain came running along, and seeing a carriage drawing up at
a door, the gentleman inquired of the driver if he could not take
them to Rutgers Place. The driver replied that he had just come for
two ladies and a gentleman whom he had brought from the Astor House.
“Indeed and Patrick,” said the girl who stood at the door, “if I
was you I’d be after making another penny to-night. Miss Jane is
pounding away at one of her long music pieces, and it won’t be over
before you have time to get to Rutgers and back again. And if you
do make them wait awhile, where’s the harm? They’ve a dry roof over
their heads, and I warrant it’s not the first waiting they’ve ever
had in their lives; and it won’t be the last neither.”
“Exactly so,” said the gentleman; and regardless of the propriety
of first sending to consult the persons who had engaged the
carriage, he told his wife to step in, and following her instantly
himself, they drove away to Rutgers Place.
Reader, if you were ever detained in a strange house by the
non-arrival of your carriage, you will easily understand the
excessive annoyance of finding that you are keeping a family out
of their beds beyond their usual hour. And in this case, there was
a double grievance; the guests being all impatience to get off to
a better place. The children, all crying when wakened from their
sleep, were finally taken to bed by two servant maids, and Jane
Watkinson, who never came back again. None were left but Hester,
the great French scholar, who, being one of those young imps that
seem to have the faculty of living without sleep, sat bolt upright
with her eyes wide open, watching the uncomfortable visitors.
The Morlands felt as if they could bear it no longer, and Edward
proposed sending for another carriage to the nearest livery stable.
“We don’t keep a man now,” said Mrs. Watkinson, who sat nodding
in the rocking-chair, attempting now and then a snatch of
conversation, and saying “ma’am” still more frequently than usual.
“Men servants are dreadful trials, ma’am, and we gave them up three
years ago. And I don’t know how Mary or Katy are to go out this
stormy night in search of a livery stable.”
“On no consideration could I allow the women to do so,” replied
Edward. “If you will oblige me by the loan of an umbrella, I will
go myself.”
Accordingly he set out on this business, but was unsuccessful
at two livery stables, the carriages being all out. At last he
found one, and was driven in it to Mr. Watkinson’s house, where
his mother and sister were awaiting him, all quite ready, with
their calashes and shawls on. They gladly took their leave; Mrs.
Watkinson rousing herself to hope they had spent a pleasant
evening, and that they would come and pass another with her on
their return to New York. In such cases how difficult it is to
reply even with what are called “words of course.”
A kitchen lamp was brought to light them to the door, the entry
lamp having long since been extinguished. Fortunately the rain
had ceased; the stars began to reappear, and the Morlands, when
they found themselves in the carriage and on their way to Mrs. St.
Leonard’s, felt as if they could breathe again. As may be supposed,
they freely discussed the annoyances of the evening; but now those
troubles were over they felt rather inclined to be merry about them.
“Dear mother,” said Edward, “how I pitied you for having to endure
Mrs. Watkinson’s perpetual ‘ma’aming’ and ‘ma’aming’; for I know
you dislike the word.”
“I wish,” said Caroline, “I was not so prone to be taken with
ridiculous recollections. But really to-night I could not get that
old foolish child’s play out of my head—
Here come three knights out of Spain
A-courting of your daughter Jane.”
“_I_ shall certainly never be one of those Spanish knights,” said
Edward. “Her daughter Jane is in no danger of being ruled by any
‘flattering tongue’ of mine. But what a shame for us to be talking
of them in this manner.”
They drove to Mrs. St. Leonard’s, hoping to be yet in time to
pass half an hour there; though it was now near twelve o’clock
and summer parties never continue to a very late hour. But as
they came into the street in which she lived they were met by a
number of coaches on their way home, and on reaching the door of
her brilliantly lighted mansion, they saw the last of the guests
driving off in the last of the carriages, and several musicians
coming down the steps with their instruments in their hands.
“So there _has_ been a dance, then!” sighed Caroline. “Oh, what we
have missed! It is really too provoking.”
“So it is,” said Edward; “but remember that to-morrow morning we
set off for Niagara.”
“I will leave a note for Mrs. St. Leonard,” said his mother,
“explaining that we were detained at Mrs. Watkinson’s by our
coachman disappointing us. Let us console ourselves with the hope
of seeing more of this lady on our return. And now, dear Caroline,
you must draw a moral from the untoward events of to-day. When you
are mistress of a house, and wish to show civility to strangers,
let the invitation be always accompanied with a frank disclosure
of what they are to expect. And if you cannot conveniently invite
company to meet them, tell them at once that you will not insist
on their keeping their engagement with _you_ if anything offers
afterwards that they think they would prefer; provided only that
they apprize you in time of the change in their plan.”
“Oh, mamma,” replied Caroline, “you may be sure I shall always
take care not to betray my visitors into an engagement which they
may have cause to regret, particularly if they are strangers whose
time is limited. I shall certainly, as you say, tell them not to
consider themselves bound to me if they afterwards receive an
invitation which promises them more enjoyment. It will be a long
while before I forget, the Watkinson evening.”