_From the same to the same._
Saturday evening.
A deluge of rain has fallen here since last night; of course we have
all been stationary to-day. My spirits rose, however, before dinner
on seeing our doctor enter in his oiled surtout, like a river god,
dispensing his streams every step he made towards us. I escaped a
shower-bath by my flight; and leaving Miss Nora to her heroes and
heroines, I took my netting-box, determining to pass an hour with Miss
Serge. She was pleased, and moreover she was cheerful. In less than
ten minutes we were interrupted by Miss Lydia, who, with blubbered
cheeks, and much anger, threw a muslin robe on the bed; and showing us
a quantity of fine narrow lace, which she held in her hand, said, with
renewed tears, “Is it not a ‘burning shame’ that I am to be always the
drudge to Nora? Why ca’nt she do her own jobs? She can move her fingers
fast enough when she _like_ at her music; a thimble would do them no
more harm than her harp strings. I will tell my father how I am _put
upon_ by her: that I will!” “My dear Lydia,” said the gentle Caroline,
“I will help you. Willet has a great deal to do, or she should take
it: but it is a trifle, and I am certain you would not vex your father
for a trifle.” “You always talk in _that there_ way,” replied Lydia,
wiping her eyes, and visibly softened; “but I promise you, _you_ shall
not have any thing to do with this gown. We had enough of your helping
to prepare Nora’s two dresses a day, at Bath. Such learning say I! She
ought to be ashamed of herself! To see a sick sister work for her, and
one older than herself made her waiting-woman.” She proceeded to the
performance of her allotted task without further delay; and I perceived
that she had dexterity at her needle. “I will read you a pretty story
from the Mirror,” said I, taking up the book, “that will amuse you,
Miss Lydia.” “I am much obliged to you,” replied she; “but if you
will read from this book I shall like it better.” Thus saying, she
drew from her pocket a dirty, mutilated book, intitled “Joe Miller’s
Jests.” Caroline’s black eyes wanted not spirit, when with resentment
and vexation she asked where she had picked up such trash. “Trash!”
repeated Lydia, “I do not know what you mean by trash! It will not
make you cry, as that book _have_ done. I am sure, when we read this,
we laughed till our sides ached.” “_We!_” echoed Caroline, “who do you
mean?” “Why Willet, and Mrs. Patty, and----,” she hesitated,--“and Mr.
William.” “Why will you thus grieve me, Lydia? Why will you thus force
me to grieve your dear father,” said Caroline, “do you not know that
he is displeased when you seek your society in the servants’ hall?
Did William give you that book?” “Lord! no,” answered Miss Lydia with
terror. “I found it in Jacob’s coat pocket, he only read _here_ and
_there_ a bit.” “And did you not blush, Lydia, when you produced a
book purloined from a postillion’s pocket, which a better informed
servant saw was not proper for him to read to females, even of his own
class?” “How should I know that?” replied she. “You know, I suppose,
that you have been forbidden to talk with your father’s postillions, to
frequent the kitchen, or to take the lead in the servants’-hall. Willet
also knows my father’s commands; but enough of this: I shall inform
him they are disobeyed.” Miss Lydia burst into tears, and, imploring
her sister to say nothing of this matter, she faithfully promised to
restore the book to its owner by means of the cook maid, and never to
go near the servants’-hall again. This contest had too much fretted
poor Caroline. I saw that she was again in pain, and pretending to more
industry than I had, I helped Lydia to finish the trimming business;
leaving the invalid to recover her tranquillity. The poor girl amazed
at my condescension, asked whether I did all my own _jobs_; for she
concluded that Miss Cowley had been at a London boarding school,
because she played on the harp.
Tell me in your next that you have had enough of my talents in the
gossiping way. I have only to fear that Horace will suspect my
understanding is in its retrograde motion, for I have not written to
him this last fortnight a letter which would not disgrace a Miss in
her Teens. “Evil communications corrupt good manners.” This is not my
apology: but folly is catching, and you have betrayed me into such an
observance of it, that I yesterday, without reflection, began a speech
with “all _mander_ of persons.” So look to the consequences of my
readiness to assume any form or language, my Lucy prescribes for her
Faithful,