_In continuation._--I am inclined to believe that Miss Leonora is
emulous of rivaling her grandmamma, Mrs. Hatchway, in her hairbreadth
escapes by sea and land. Whilst I thought her shut up in her room,
and _devouring_ Monimia, the heroine of a good novel intitled the
Manor-House, she was in the avenue enjoying a shower-bath. In
returning, completely drenched, her mother perceived her from the
window, and as I conceived, unseasonably stopped her in her way to dry
her clothes, by an angry lecture on her folly and heedlessness. “I
am not surprised,” added she, in a sharp tone, “that I cannot keep a
laundry-maid: six or eight white dresses in a week to wash would tire
any one’s patience.”
It is probable the lecture would have concluded with this notable
observation, had not Mrs. Serge unluckily perceived at this instant
the lamentable breach which the brambles had made in the costly deep
lace which trimmed Miss Leonora’s pelisse. “I don’t believe,” exclaimed
she, surveying the mischief, “there is on the face of the whole earth
your _hequal_, Nora! Your hextravagance is enough to discredit a polite
_heducation_! Though your father is a rich man he has something better
to do with his money than to buy you every month a twenty guinea lace.
Here’s a sight! It would provoke a saint! One would think you had
not _common sense_ to walk in the pouring rain, and through _edges_
and ditches with a new thirty-pound _pelisse_.” Miss Nora laughed,
not without contempt. “Never mind,” said she, rudely, snatching the
tattered and wet pelisse from her mother’s hand, “it is only another
evidence that the Serges with all their wealth are too poor for the
purchase of common sense, or good manners:” then, with a curtsey to
Lady Maclairn, she retired to change her dress. Mrs. Serge, with an
heightened colour following her steps. I believe this _brouillerie_
became more serious in their apartment. The young lady did not appear
at the dining table, and Mrs. Serge’s fair face still glowed. “Where
is Nora?” asked the father, adjusting his napkin under his chin. “Does
she dine with Caroline?” “No,” replied the wife, “she is busy drying
the books Sam has brought her from the library, they are as wet as
water can make them, and she has had enough of the rain for one day.”
Her folly was related with some asperity, and the postillion’s drenched
condition described. Mr. Serge wished that neither had taken cold; and
with a placid air took his soup. When the heroine appeared, she was in
perfect good humour; but I perceived that she had been weeping, and
look fatigued; something of a deprecating tone and pensive air soon
produced their effect on the relenting mother, and all was harmony in
the evening. I chanced to ask her what new novels had been sent her
from the library. “I have not examined the parcel,” replied she with
some emotion, “for I have for once discovered that there are certain
frames of mind in which a novel cannot be read with either amusement or
interest: besides,” added she, “I have been teazed with a pain in my
teeth, which will be attributed to my morning ramble, notwithstanding
I have felt it more than a week:” then turning to Malcolm, with more
coquetry than I had ever observed in her manner, she with a sweet smile
asked him to prescribe for her; and directed his attention to a tooth
as the one which she suspected was diseased. I could not preserve my
gravity on seeing the _sang froid_ with which Malcolm examined the most
beautiful mouth nature could form, and the delight which Mr. Serge
manifested at his Nora’s choice of a doctor; who with the solemnity
of an old nurse acquitted the spotless tooth, and ordered some whey on
going to bed.
“It is ten to one,” observed Mrs. Serge with good humour, “whether
even your remedy, _doctor_, will remove her cold in one night: it
will not surprise me that she is laid up for a week.” “Why will you
anticipate disappointment for her?” asked Mr. Serge, “it will be
sufficient when it arrives, and if she cannot see Durham to-morrow,
she must take the punishment of her heedlessness; but I warrant the
tooth will be well with a good night’s sleep.”--“I had settled with
Caroline, before my offence of the morning had made the excursion to
Durham a doubt,” answered Leonora, “to remain with her, thinking my
sister Lydia would be amused by the jaunt; and to be honest, I confess
I have no hope of being quit of a cold that I am sensible is the effect
of my indiscretion.” “Yes,” observed Miss Lydia, “it was settled I
should go last Monday, but you know, Nora, you promised to contrive
that I should ride in the phaeton, and I would rather stay at home than
go in the coach. I am always so deadly sick in a coach, that I hate
them.” “Nonsense!” cried the mother, “that is a new fagary. You never
complained in a close carriage till the phaeton was bought.” “Well, my
love,” observed the placid Mr. Serge, “but as pleasure is the purposed
end of our little journey, why should not Lydia have a share of it
unmixed, and as our dear girls have agreed in this business, we will
manage so as to please Lydia. You will not refuse your assistance, my
dear Malcolm,” added he, smiling: “you shall have the daughter instead
of the father to conduct.” Malcolm accepted of the exchange with good
humour; and all were contented.
I have had so much business of late on my hands that I believe I have
not mentioned the increasing good understanding which subsists between
Malcolm and Mr. Parry, our new curate. He is become a frequent and
welcome visitor here, and an acquisition we all enjoy. Malcolm has, I
suspect, given him a hint that his present duty requires assistance;
and most assuredly he finds in Parry an excellent coadjutor. The
baronet enjoys his conversation, and Mr. Serge is no burden to him. I
foresee we shall not need Parry for to-morrow’s excursion. The rain
is now pouring down in torrents, and it is midnight. May Heaven guard
your pillow, my Lucy, with its accustomed goodness! Mary shall have my
journal of the Durham expedition in due time.
Yours, &c.