_From the same to the same._
Our good doctor will have a more rich and costly offering from the
grateful Mr. Serge, than any that ostentation or superstition ever
gave to Esculapius, or to any saint in the Roman calendar, if he can
manage to keep his patient as many years as he has done hours from the
cruel invader, pain. Yet I am angry with Douglass’s honesty; he tells
me that this poor girl cannot live long; and that even the medicine we
fancy so efficacious, will soon lose its benign effect. “She knows her
condition,” added he with sympathy, “and has only the wish of seeing
her father more reconciled to the thoughts of losing her; but we must
let him enjoy the present, and trust for the future to that Being who
will support him.”
The day before yesterday, Miss Leonora and myself went to Bishop’s
Auckland for an airing. The dapper Mr. William Willet, Mr. Serge’s
servant, attended us: and I, very successfully, conducted the whisky to
Mrs. Crofts’ door. The good old lady received us with great kindness;
and after making a few purchases, her daughter attended us to the
circulating library, the principal object with Miss Nora. We found
this shop was in the same street with Susan Crofts’, and its rival for
smartness. My companion, who had languished for _books_ at the Hall,
instantly proceeded to make an ample selection. Scores were produced
_that had been read_--a _score at least_ put aside for her use; and I
thought our business finished here, when Miss Leonora accidentally took
up a new novel which “she had been _dying_ to see for a month;” but
the third volume was in circulation: it was hourly expected, however,
and the shopman would send it with the fourth and last. This civility
would not do. The young lady could not wait: she would purchase the
work rather than not have it: she should be quite miserable not to
take it home with her, her curiosity having been excited by seeing it
within her reach. “Has any of your neighbours this book, Mr. Type?”
asked Miss Crofts; “perhaps, by sending, you might get the volume
for the young lady.” “He would endeavour: a gentleman at the Mitre
had hired it the preceding day, and perhaps he had done with it.” He
alertly stepped to the door to cross to the inn, when, as quickly
returning to make way for the envied possessor of the third volume,
he began to urge his request, and the young lady’s wishes for the
complete set of the work. A graceful compliance followed from a very
handsome man of about thirty; and who, addressing me, very gallantly
declared that “he was _inexpressibly flattered_ in contributing in the
smallest degree to _Miss Cowley_’s wishes and pleasure.” _Miss Cowley_,
who saw no necessity for incurring an obligation where the obliger
had so manifest an advantage over her, in regard to his knowledge of
her name, only coldly bowed, and said that not having any peculiar
interest to gratify by his politeness, she would refer him to her
young friend for those thanks due for his indulgence of her curiosity.
“_I_ am indeed, sir,” said Miss Serge, “extremely obliged to you; but
I shall not long detain the work, for I read very quick. _To-morrow
evening_ they will be returned, or the next morning at _furthest_.”
He bowed, and we left the shop, ordering the books to Susan Crofts’.
In our way I asked Susan the name of this civil gentleman who had
been so ready to contribute to “Miss Cowley’s” happiness. “He was a
stranger, lately come to Bishop’s Aukland. He lodged at the Mitre
Inn, she believed, for she had seen him there several times within a
day or two, and she thought him a very handsome man.” “I think he has
a very good person,” replied I. “He thinks so himself, I am certain,”
observed Miss Nora, “by the elaborate pains he takes to display it.”
I made no answer, for I perceived that gratitude had not banished the
young lady’s displeasure, in having been overlooked for the gentleman’s
“Miss Cowley.” Mrs. Crofts in our absence had sent for my frost-bitten
friends from their school, and had set out her cake and wine, whilst
Willet was stowing the cargo of books in the vehicle, and waiting with
it at the door. My greetings with the children detained me some little
time: I did not perceive even that my companion had quitted the parlour
till I rose to depart; but concluded, when I did miss her, that she
was in the shop. I was mistaken, she was not there; but approaching
the door, expecting to find her by the carriage, I saw her coming
from Mr. Type’s with hasty steps. On expressing my surprise at her
absence, she told me that she had fortunately discovered, in taking
out her purse to pay Miss Crofts, that she had left her pocketbook on
the bookseller’s counter, “and judging it the securest method, I went
for it myself,” added she; “luckily I found it, exactly as I supposed,
concealed by the books I had rejected. Only think! That coxcomb was
still in the shop. How fortunate that he did not see it!” I smiled, for
I saw through this little coquetry. “It would not have been pleasant to
me, I do assure you,” pursued she, “to have seen it in his hands; for
one does not write one’s thoughts for every eye. Neither do I believe
it would have pleased Mr. Malcolm to have seen this beau at the Hall
on the pretence of giving _you_ your strayed goods.”--“I do not see
the drift of your inference,” replied I; “for what concern could Mr.
Maclairn have had in a business so exclusively yours? However, I am
glad you have recovered your book, and spared the gentleman the trouble
of a visit to the Hall.”--“We might, notwithstanding, have made such
a visit a diversion for ourselves,” answered she with gaiety; “for,
to speak the truth, I think your lover would not be the worse for a
little jealousy. He is too secure; and wants the hopes and anxieties
of _la belle passion_ to rouse him: You really are as dull as though
brother and sister. I cannot conceive how you contrive to keep up
your cheerfulness at Tarefield: what with your _prudent lover_, and
the sober routine at the Hall, I think you as much to be pitied as I
am.” “Much the same,” answered I, laughing; “for my calamities are as
imaginary as your own. I love the country, and the retirement at the
Hall; and I am attached to its inmates. I am so completely Malcolm
Maclairn’s _sister_ that I am his chief confident, and he reads his
love letters to me. He will soon, I trust, be married to a very
amiable, deserving young lady, to whom he has been attached several
years: she resides with her mother in this neighboured; but she is at
present from home.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Miss Nora with a pretty
theatrical air, “you make me envy this Phillis! With such a swain as
Mr. Maclairn, and with a mind suitable to her situation in life, and
the society in which she will probably pass all her days, how happy is
her condition when compared with mine!” “Miss Heartley,” replied I,
“has been educated by a mother who has prepared her to act properly in
every society and situation in life. Mrs. Heartley has lived in the
world, and is a superior woman.” “My lot, then,” said she, “is misery
to this young lady’s!” She spoke with emotion. “Do not answer me,”
continued she, “till you have reflected on my reasons for discontent.
With an education which has taught me to blush at ignorance, and to be
offended by vulgarity; accustomed to enjoy with girls of fashion, rank,
and fortune, the advantages and the hopes which have resulted from my
situation with them; I am now doomed to live in a society, in which I
am hourly exposed to give offence and to be offended. Be ingenuous,
my dear Miss Cowley! Tell me, do you think that seven years and more
passed in one of the first schools in town, can have rendered me a fit
inmate for my father’s house, or a suitable companion for my mother’s
acquaintance? I read in your countenance that my appeal has reached
your heart. Can you be surprised that I am disgusted and repining in
parties composed of shopkeepers and their wives, masters of ships, and
genteel people who, in my mother’s dialect, live “right up,” viz. on
their little fortune, and who, fancying they are _gentry_, because they
have no longer the drudgery of opening a shop and standing behind its
counter, affect airs truly ridiculous, and even sickening to me. It
was entirely owing to Caroline’s influence with my father that we came
hither, instead of being dragged down to Y--m--th with a party of my
mother’s “_hold_” friends, Mr. Crimp the coal merchant and his family;
and it was not without some difficulty that we prevailed on my mother
to give up the _tower_ of Norfolk which these her _hold_ friends had
proposed. But I would have died sooner than have submitted! I have met
with mortifications at Bath, which will prevent my having the folly
of ever being seen again in a place of public resort without proper
introduction! This was a fear I never experienced at school, when
looking forwards to my freedom from its confinement. _Miss Serge_,
the contracter’s daughter, was there on a level with the first girls
in the house; nor was there one pupil in it whose masters were more
liberally paid, for my mother chose I should make them presents every
vacation; and she was equally attentive to secure me favour with the
governess and teachers. Amongst the girls to whom I was particularly
attached were the two Miss Gudgeons. Their father Sir Ambrose was dead;
and their mother, Lady Gudgeon, lived too gay a life to think much of
their comforts or wants. Almira Gudgeon confided to me her discontents
and difficulties; and in return she shared my purse. It grieved me
to leave her at school during the holidays; and on my mentioning to
my father and mother those neglected girls, they invited them to
Putney the following vacation. Lady Gudgeon made no objection; and
from that time my friends always accompanied me home. Last midsummer
they were removed from school, and sent down to their mother’s house
in Berkshire. From this place I received poor Almira’s melancholy
letters: though then turned of seventeen, she lived immured at the Dale
with no other company than that of her sister, an old nurse, and the
gardener’s family. The winter approached, and I had the pleasure of
hearing that my beloved Almira and her sister would be _brought out_ at
Bath, as soon as the Birth Day was over. Lady Gudgeon having been with
them for a week, and finding Clara in danger of growing too fat, had
engaged to introduce her with her sister, on condition that she left
off suppers and took more exercise. You may judge of the joy I felt on
gaining my mother’s promise of taking me to Bath; and the still greater
satisfaction I had on finding that Lydia was included in the family
party, instead of being left with me at Mrs. S----’s, as preparatory
to reconciling her to the confinement and instruction she was thought
to want. I had foreseen the ridicule I must have braved; and with a
heart exulting at this escape, and palpitating with expected pleasure,
and the hope of meeting my friends, we reached Bath, and settled
ourselves on the South Parade.
“In a few days after our arrival Lady Gudgeon’s name appeared on
the list of new comers, and my joy was complete. Her ladyship’s
condescension enchanted my mother; and kind hearted as she is, the
Miss Gudgeons constantly received from her hands tickets for the play,
and their mother found a carriage at her command. During the space of
three weeks, or a month, we constantly made one party. I saw my mother
nightly paying for her lessons at Lady Gudgeon’s _vingt-et-une_ table;
but of what importance was a little money to my father? Yet he appeared
every day to like the Gudgeons less and less; and at length forbad
my mother’s playing cards at the Rooms with her ladyship, or going to
her parties at home. On some occasions it is in vain to reason with my
father. My mother submitted, and I was told that my young friends were
silly, giddy girls, who did me no good. I perfectly understood that
my father had judged with precision on Clara Gudgeon’s character; for
I knew she was deceitful and selfish, and she had shown herself to me
in her true colours from the first ball in which I had been noticed
for my dancing. I also was no stranger to her malice from the time her
favourite Captain Fairly became attentive and polite to me. Caroline’s
increasing illness at this juncture prevented our amusements, and
gave an ostensible reason for my mother’s declining Lady Gudgeon’s
invitations. At length Caroline was better; and my mother joined a
family party, who lodged at the next house, and with whom my father
was become very sociable. As I had been engaged to dance with Captain
Fairly at this ball, I was not willing to be disappointed; and knowing
that I should meet the Miss Gudgeons, I meant to join them, when at
the Rooms. My mother had already placed herself at a card-table with
her new acquaintance when Lady Gudgeon entered the room. Following the
example of the young lady, my companion, I kept close by my mother’s
side, waiting for Captain Fairly’s summons. ‘How is this, my dear Mrs.
Serge?’ cried Lady Gudgeon, advancing towards her with a smile; ‘you
here! and a deserter! But you will find your place, when your rubber is
up.’--‘I thank your ladyship,’ replied my unembarrassed mother, ‘but,
to tell you the truth, I do not like your game so well as _vhist_, for
I do not so well understand it.’ A stifled titter from the surrounding
groupe followed this speech. ‘As you please, _Mrs. Serge_,’ answered
her ladyship, moving on without deigning to notice me, or the smile of
contempt from those she passed. She took her post, opened the cards,
and sent for her daughters. They had, I presume, their instructions;
for in passing me they did not see me, and in repassing me I was
saluted with a broad stare and a giggle, which I had seen too often
practised not to comprehend. I was prepared for the neglect I met with
in the dance. The Miss Gudgeons neither spoke nor deigned to turn hands
with me, and whilst their heads were adorned with feathers and turbands
of my giving, their looks of scorn cut me to the soul. Captain Fairly
saw my distress, and their rudeness; and said something to Clara on
her carelessness in the dance. With an insolent laugh she asked him
whether his credit was out with his old taylor, that he so diligently
courted a new one. This was too much for me to bear, and I gave up
dancing for the remainder of the evening. But my mortifications were
not yet finished. After having heard my mother announce that arts were
trumps, seen her mark her _onours_, and win the rubber, although she
had the curse of Scotland every time in her _and_, the party broke up,
and the lady proposed going into the ball room to give her daughter
a caution to dance no more. On entering it I was astonished to see
my good father quietly standing, with his two thumbs hooked under
each arm, and enjoying the sight of the dancers. He expressed his
surprise at finding me idle, and said he had come on purpose to see
me dance, having left Caroline _purely_. Fairly urged me to go down
the dance then commencing, and encouraged by him, I was determined
to show my spirit. In our way we encountered Miss Clara Gudgeon. ‘By
your leave, fair lady,’ cried my father, bustling through the groupe.
‘Bless me!’ said Miss Clara, ‘is it you Mr. Serge? Are you come to see
fashions?’--‘Even so,’ replied he, ‘but if you are of my mind you will
think those at Putney as good as any here, and, for ought I can see,
you footed it away in my parlour with ten couple as merrily as you do
here. But where is Almira? I hope she has her Putney holiday face; for
yours seems as clouded as when your six weeks’ gambols finished with
us.’ ‘I really cannot direct you, sir,’ answered she, retreating; ‘but
if you cannot see _her_, she will undoubtedly soon perceive you.’ A
loud laugh, and a disdainful toss of her head accompanied this speech;
but my father, not conceiving that her intention could be uncivil, went
on searching for Almira, till I told him that they had been offended by
my mother’s not joining her ladyship’s party. He only nodded, and said
it was all very well. From this time the Gudgeons were strangers to us;
and because Captain Fairly chose to be civil they _cut him_. He laughed
at their impertinence; but I had no pleasure at Bath after this, as you
may imagine.”
In my animadversions on Miss Leonora’s little narrative you will not
suspect me of sparing the Gudgeon family; and I added, that neither
the simplicity of her father, nor her mother’s provincial dialect
would stand in her way with the discriminating and the virtuous. “It
is easy to think, and to say this,” replied she with vivacity, “when
we are remote from the regrets and dissatisfactions of living with
those who can neither guide nor improve us: who do not even know when
they wound, nor can comprehend why they offend. If I sing I am asked
whether it be a psalm or song, and they wish for Alley Croaker, God
save the King, or Black-eyed Susan. If I play, it must be Handel’s
Water Piece or the Variations of Nancy Dawson. Oh! you know not the
misery,” added she, bursting into tears, “of being doomed to live
with those who are perpetually disgusting our taste, opposing our
feelings, and contradicting by their habits and modes of life those
which more refinement have rendered necessary and essential to our
comfort! Indeed, Miss Cowley, I speak from bitter experience; and I
sometimes wish that, like Lydia, I had been kept at home, and been
happy in ignorance.” I was struck by her acuteness, and moved by
her distress; and with much seriousness I exhorted her to correct a
sensibility which tended more to cherish a fastidious refinement of
feeling, than a love for what was commendable. “Believe me, my dear
young friend,” added I, “that although not educated as a girl at a
fashionable boarding school, nor in Lady Gudgeon’s societies, your
father’s character has been perfectly understood by me, you will
find in him your pride and boast, by weighing his trifling defects
with his integrity and uprightness of heart.” “I know his worth,”
replied she, weeping, “he must be loved; but what will you say for my
mother?”--“What I really think,” replied I, “and must ever think, till
I find out, that a little knowledge is judged to be an equivalent for
a base mind. I would rather, a thousand times over, be Mrs. Serge’s
child than Lady Gudgeon’s; and I would convince the world by my respect
to such a parent that I was qualified to appreciate what was really
estimable in it; and by my resentment check the idle laugh of those,
more incorrigible in their ignorance than the object they contemned:
for it must be allowed, at least, that Mrs. Serge is not _conceited_.
Your education has been liberal,” continued I; “you have endowments
which your mother has not; and for a plain reason, she had not the
means of acquiring them. Show your parents that their kindness has not
been thrown away; and above all things manifest to others that you are
superior to the ingratitude and meanness of despising your benefactors,
because they happen to be less fashionable than yourself in the cut of
their garment or in their address.”
We now entered the avenue, and Leonora composed her pretty face,
saying, with a deep sigh, that she wanted a true friend! I silently
agreed with her. I leave to Mary the profound reflections which this
little airing has brought forward in my mind; it not being my business
to reason, but to detail. Heathcot and its inhabitants must not engage
me a moment longer; for I am Lady Maclairn’s “right hand.”
Yours ever,