I must trouble you with my concerns, though your own are so heavy upon
you. A piece of news I have to tell you. Your uncle Antony is disposed
to marry. With whom, think you? with my mother. True indeed. Your
family knows it. All is laid with redoubled malice at your door. And
there the old soul himself lays it.
Take no notice of this intelligence, not so much as in your letters to
me, for fear of accidents.
I think it can't do. But were I to provoke my mother, that might afford
a pretence. Else, I should have been with you before now, I fancy.
The first likelihood that appears to me of encouragement, I dismiss
Hickman, that's certain. If my mother disoblige me in so important an
article, I shan't think of obliging her in such another. It is
impossible, surely, that the desire of popping me off to that honest man
can be with such a view.
I repeat, that it cannot come to any thing. But these widows--Then such
a love in us all, both old and young, of being courted and admired!--and
so irresistible to their elderships to be flattered, that all power is
not over with them; but that they may still class and prank it with their
daughters.--It vexed me heartily to have her tell me of this proposal
with self-complaisant simperings; and yet she affected to speak of it as
if she had no intention to encourage it.
These antiquated bachelors (old before they believe themselves to be so)
imagine that when they have once persuaded themselves to think of the
state, they have nothing more to do than to make their minds known to the
woman.
Your uncle's overgrown fortune is indeed a bait; a tempting one. A saucy
daughter to be got rid of! The memory of the father of that daughter not
precious enough to weigh much!--But let him advance if he dare--let her
encourage--but I hope she won't.
Excuse me, my dear. I am nettled. They have fearfully rumpled my
gorget. You'll think me faulty. So, I won't put my name to this
separate paper. Other hands may resemble mine. You did not see me write
it.