Harriet understood that tea was in agitation. Finally, Sally, looking
very much out of humour, came and asked for the keys; and unlocking a
dwarf side-board that stood in one of the recesses, she got out the
common tea-equipage and placed it on the table. "You see, Miss Harriet,
we treat you quite _en famille_," said Mrs. Accleton. "We make no
stranger of you. After tea, the parlour will doubtless be warm, and we
will go down thither." Harriet wondered if the anthracite was expected
to repent of its obstinacy, and take to burning of its own accord.
Mr. Accleton now came home, and his wife, after running to kiss him,
exclaimed: "Oh! my dear, I am glad you are come! You can now entertain
Miss Heathcote while I go down and pay some attention to the tea, for
Sally protests that she was not hired to cook, and, if the truth must be
told, she is very busy ironing, and does not like to be taken off. This
is our regular ironing-day, and one of my rules is never, on any
consideration, to have it put off or passed over. Method is the soul of
housekeeping."
Mr. Accleton was naturally taciturn, but he made a prodigious effort to
entertain Harriet, and talked to her of the tariff.
It was near eight o'clock before Sally condescended to bring up the tea
and its accompaniments, which were a plate containing four slices of the
thinnest possible bread and butter, another with two slices of pale
toast, and a third with two shapeless whitish cakes, of what composition
it was difficult to tell, but similar to those that are called
flap-jacks in Boston, slap-jacks in New York, and buckwheat cakes in
Philadelphia.[84] In the centre was a deep dish with a dozen small
stewed oysters floating in an ocean of liquor, as tasteless and insipid
as dish-water. The tea also was tasteless, and for two reasons--first,
that the Chinese herb had been apportioned in a very small quantity; and
secondly, that the kettle had not "come to a boil."
[Footnote 84: Query? Which epithet is the most elegant, flap or slap? We
rather think "the flaps have it."]
"We give you tea in a very plain style," said Mrs. Accleton to Harriet;
"you see we make no stranger of you, and that we treat you just as we do
ourselves. We know that simple food is always the most wholesome, and
when our friends are so kind as to visit us, we have no desire to make
them sick by covering our table with dainties. It is one of my rules
never to have a sweetcake or sweetmeat in the house. They are not only a
foolish expense, but decidedly prejudicial to health."
The hot cakes being soon despatched, there was considerable waiting for
another supply. Mr. and Mrs. Accleton were at somewhat of a nonplus as
to the most feasible means of procuring the attendance of Sally.
"Perhaps she will come if we knock on the floor," said Mrs. Accleton;
"she _has_ done so sometimes." Mr. Accleton stamped on the floor, but
Sally came not. Harriet could not imagine why Sally's pride should be
less hurt by coming to a knock on the floor than to a ring of the bell;
but there is no accounting for tastes. Mr. Accleton stamped again, and
much more loudly than before. "Now you have spoiled all," said his wife,
fretfully; "Sally will never come now. She will be justly offended at
your stamping for her in that violent way. I much question if we see her
face again to-night."
At last, after much canvassing, it was decided that Mr. Accleton should
go to the head of the stairs and venture to call Sally; his wife
enjoining him not to call too loudly, and to let his tone and manner be
as mild as possible. This delicate business was successfully
accomplished. Sally at last appeared with two more hot cakes, and Mrs.
Accleton respectfully intimated to her that she wished her to return in
a few minutes to clear away the table.
Mr. Accleton, who was a meek man, being sent down by his wife to
reconnoitre the parlour fire, came back and reported that it was "dead
out." "How very unlucky," said Mrs. Accleton, "that Miss Heathcote
should happen to come just on this evening! Unlucky for herself, I mean,
for we must always be delighted to see her. However, I am so fond of
this snug little room, that for my own part I have no desire ever to sit
in any other. My husband and I have passed so many pleasant hours in
it."
The ladies now resumed their sewing; Mrs. Accleton talked of her plans,
and her economy, and Sally; and Mr. Accleton pored over the newspaper as
if he was learning it all by heart, even to the advertisements; while
his wife, who had taken occasion to remark that the price of oil had
risen considerably, managed two or three times to give the screw of the
astral lamp a twist to the left, which so much diminished the light that
Harriet could scarcely see to thread her needle.
About an hour after tea, Mrs. Accleton called her husband to the other
end of the room, and a half-whispered consultation took place between
them, which ended in the disappearance of the gentleman. In a short time
he returned, and there was another consultation, in the course of which
Harriet could not avoid distinguishing the words--"Sally refuses to quit
her clear-starching." "Well, dear, cannot I ask you just to do them
yourself?" "Oh, no! indeed, it is quite out of the question; I would
willingly oblige you in anything else." "But, dear, only think how often
you have done this very thing when a boy." "But I am not a boy now."
"Oh, but dear, you really must. There is no one else to do it. Come now,
only a few, just a very few." There was a little more persuasion; the
lady seemed to prevail, and the gentleman quitted the room. A short time
after, there was heard a sound of cracking nuts, which Mrs. Accleton,
consciously colouring, endeavoured to drown by talking as fast and as
loudly as possible.
We have said that Mr. Accleton was a meek man. Having finished his
business down-stairs, he came back looking red and foolish; and after
awhile Sally appeared with great displeasure in her countenance, and in
her hands a waiter containing a plate of shellbarks, a pitcher of water,
and some glasses. Mr. Accleton belonged to the temperance society, and
therefore, as his wife said, was principled against having in his house,
either wine, or any other sort of liquor.
The arrival of Albert Heathcote put an end to this comfortless visit;
and Mrs. Accleton on taking leave of Harriet, repeated, for the
twentieth time, her regret at not having had any previous intimation of
it.
Our heroine could not but wonder why marriage should so soon have have
made a change for the worse, in the lady with whom she had been passing
the evening, and whom she had known when Miss Maiden, as a lively,
pleasant, agreeable girl, not remarkable for much mind, but in every
other respect the reverse of what she was now. Harriet had yet to learn
that marriage, particularly when it takes place at a very early age, and
before the judgment of the lady has had time to ripen by intercourse
with the world, frequently produces a sad alteration in her habits and
ideas. As soon as she is emancipated from the control of her parents,
and when "her market is made," and a partner secured for life, all her
latent faults and foibles are too prone to show themselves without
disguise, and she is likewise in much danger of acquiring new ones.
Presuming upon her importance as a married lady, and also upon the
indulgence with which husbands generally regard all the sayings and
doings of their wives in the _early_ days of matrimony, woman, as well
as man, is indeed too apt to "play fantastic tricks when dressed in a
little brief authority."
Next day, Harriet was surprised by a morning visit from Mrs. Accleton,
who came in looking much discomposed, and, after the first salutations,
said in a tone of some bitterness, "I have met with a great misfortune,
Miss Heathcote. I have lost that most valuable servant, Sally. The poor
girl's pride was so deeply wounded at being obliged to bring in the
waiter before company (and as her family is so respectable, she of
course has a certain degree of proper pride), that she gave me notice
this morning of the utter impossibility of her remaining in the house
another day. I tried in vain to pacify her, and I assured her that your
coming to tea was entirely accidental, and that such a thing might never
happen again. All I could urge had no effect on her, and she persisted
in saying that she never could stay in any place after her feelings had
been hurt, and that she had concluded to live at home for the future,
and take in sewing. So she quitted me at once, leaving me without a
creature in the house, and I have been obliged to borrow mamma's Kitty
for the present. And I have nearly fatigued myself to death by walking
almost to Schuylkill to inquire the character of a cook that I heard of
yesterday. As to a chambermaid, I never expect to find one that will
replace poor Sally. She was so perfectly clean, and she clear-starched,
and plaited, and ironed so beautifully; and when I went to a party, she
could arrange my hair as well as a French barber, which was certainly a
great saving to me. Undoubtedly, Miss Heathcote, your company is always
pleasant, and we certainly spent a delightful evening, but if I had had
the least intimation that you intended me the honour of a visit
yesterday, I should have taken the liberty of requesting you to defer it
till I had provided myself with a cook and a waiter. Poor Sally--and to
think, too, that she had been ironing all day!"
Harriet was much vexed, and attempted an apology for her ill-timed
visit. She finally succeeded in somewhat mollifying the lady by
presenting her with some cake and wine as a refreshment after her
fatigue, and Mrs. Accleton departed in rather a better humour, but still
the burthen of her song was, "of course, Miss Heathcote, your visits
must be always welcome--but it is certainly a sad thing to lose poor
Sally."
Our heroine's next attempt at a sociable visit was to her friend Amanda
Milbourne, the eldest daughter of a large family. As soon as Harriet
made her entrance, the children, with all of whom she was a great
favourite, gathered round, and informed her with delighted faces, that
their father and mother were going to take them to the play. Harriet
feared that again her visit had been ill-timed, and offered to return
home. "On the contrary," said Mrs. Milbourne, "nothing can be more
fortunate, at least for Amanda, who has declined accompanying us to the
theatre, as her eyes are again out of order, and she is afraid of the
lights. Therefore she will be extremely happy to have you spend the
evening with her." "It is asking too much of Harriet's kindness," said
Amanda, "to expect her to pass a dull evening alone with me; I fear I
shall not be able to entertain her as I would wish. The place that was
taken for me at the theatre will be vacant, and I am sure it would give
you all great pleasure if Harriet would accept of it, and accompany you
thither." This invitation was eagerly urged by Mr. and Mrs. Milbourne,
and loudly reiterated by all the children, but Harriet had been at the
theatre the preceding evening, the performances of to-night were exactly
the same, and she was one of those that think "nothing so tedious as a
twice-seen play," that is, if all the parts are filled precisely as
before.
Mrs. Milbourne then again felicitated Amanda on being so fortunate as to
have Miss Heathcote to pass the evening with her. "To say the truth,"
said the good mother, "I could scarcely reconcile myself to the idea of
your staying at home, particularly as your eyes will not allow you to
read or to sew this evening, and you could have no resource but the
piano." Then turning to Harriet, she continued, "When her eyes are
well, it may be truly remarked of Amanda, that she is one of those
fortunate persons 'who are never less alone than when alone;' she often
says so herself."
Accordingly Harriet was prevailed on to go through with her visit. And
as soon as tea was over, all the Milbourne family (with the exception of
Amanda) departed for the theatre.
Harriet produced her bead work, and endeavoured to be as amusing as
possible, but her friend seemed silent, abstracted, and not in the vein
for conversation, complaining at times of the pain in her eyes, which,
however, looked as well as usual. Just after the departure of the
family, Amanda stole softly to the front-door and put up the dead-latch,
so that it could be opened from without. After that, she resumed her
seat in the parlour, and appeared to be anxiously listening for
something. The sound of footsteps was soon heard at the door, and
presently a handsome young gentleman walked in without having rung the
bell, and as he entered the parlour, stopped short, and looked
disconcerted at finding a stranger there. Amanda blushed deeply, but
rose and introduced him as Captain Sedbury of the army. Harriet then
recollected having heard a vague report of an officer being very much in
love with Miss Milbourne, and that her parents discountenanced his
addresses, unwilling that the most beautiful and most accomplished of
their daughters should marry a man who had no fortune but his
commission.
The fact was, that Captain Sedbury, after an absence of several months
at his station, had only arrived in town that morning, and finding means
to notify his mistress of his return, it had been arranged between them
that he should visit her in the evening, during the absence of the
family, and for this purpose Amanda had excused herself from going to
the theatre. He took his seat beside Amanda, who contrived to give him
her hand behind the backs of their chairs, and attempted some general
conversation, catching, at times, an opportunity of saying in a low
voice a few words to the lady of his love, whose inclination was
evidently to talk to him only.
Harriet Heathcote now found herself in a very awkward situation. On this
occasion she was palpably what the French call _Madame de Trop_, a
character which is irksome beyond all endurance to the lady herself, if
she is a person of proper consideration for the convenience of others.
Though conscious that they were wishing her at least in Alabama, she
felt much sympathy for the lovers, as she had a favoured inamorato of
her own, who was now on his return from Canton. She talked, and their
replies were tardy and _distrait_; she looked at them, and they were
gazing at each other, and several times she found them earnestly engaged
in a whisper. She felt as if on thorns, and became so nervous that she
actually got the headache. The dullness of Mrs. Drakelow, the sick baby
of Mrs. Rushbrook, the feuds of the Miss Brandons, the failure of Mr.
Celbridge, the music-practising of the Urlingfords, the maid Sally of
the Accletons, had none of them at the time caused our heroine so much
annoyance as she felt on this evening, from the idea that she was so
inconveniently interrupting the stolen interview of two affianced
lovers. At last she became too nervous to endure it any longer, and
putting away her bead work, she expressed a desire to go home, pleading
her headache as an excuse. Captain Sedbury started up with alacrity, and
offered immediately to attend her. But Amanda, whose eyes had at first
sparkled with delight, suddenly changed countenance, and begged Harriet
to stay, saying, "You expect your brother, do you not?"
"Certainly," replied Harriet, "but as the distance is short, I hope it
will be no great encroachment on Captain Sedbury's time. And then," she
added with a smile, "he will of course return hither and finish his
visit, after he has deposited me at my own door."
Amanda still hesitated. She recollected an instance of a friend of hers
having lost her lover in consequence of his escorting home a pretty girl
that made a "deadset" at him. And she was afraid to trust Captain
Sedbury with so handsome a young lady as Miss Heathcote. Fortunately,
however, Harriet removed this perplexity as soon as she guessed the
cause. "Suppose," said she to Amanda, "that you were to accompany us
yourself. It is a fine moonlight night, and I have no doubt the walk
will do you good, as you say you have not been out for several days."
To this proposal Amanda joyfully assented, and in a moment her face was
radiant with smiles. She ran up stairs for her walking equipments, and
was down so quickly that Harriet had not much chance of throwing out any
allurements in her absence, even if she had been so disposed. The
captain gave an arm to each of the ladies, and in a short time the
lovers bade Miss Heathcote good night at the door of her father's
mansion.
Harriet now comprehended why her friend Amanda "was never less alone
than when alone."
Three weeks afterwards, when Miss Milbourne and Captain Sedbury had
effected a runaway marriage, and the parents had forgiven them according
to custom, Amanda and her husband made themselves and Harriet very merry
by good-humouredly telling her how much her accidental visit had
incommoded them, and how glad they were to get rid of her.
We have only to relate one more instance of Harriet Heathcote's sociable
visits. This was to her friends the Tanfields, a very charming family,
consisting of a widow and her two daughters, whom she was certain of
finding at home, because they were in deep mourning, and did not go out
of an evening.
Harriet had been detained by a visiter, and it was nearly dark when she
reached Mrs. Tanfield's door, and was told by the coloured man who
opened it, that all his ladies had set out that morning for New York,
having heard that young Mr. Tanfield (who lived in that city) was
dangerously ill. Harriet was sorry that her friends should have received
such painful intelligence, and for a few moments could think of nothing
else, for she knew young Tanfield to be one of the best of sons and
brothers. Her next consideration was how to get home, as there was no
possibility of staying at Mrs. Tanfield's. Her residence was at a
considerable distance, and "the gloomy night was gathering fast." She
thought for a moment of asking Peters, the black man, to accompany her;
but from the loud chattering and giggling that came up from the kitchen,
(which seemed to be lighted with unusual brightness), and from having
noticed, as she approached the house, that innumerable coloured people
were trooping down the area-steps, she rightly concluded that Mrs.
Tanfield's servants had taken advantage of her absence to give a party,
and that "high life below stairs" was at that moment performing.
Fearing that if she requested Peters to escort her, he would comply very
ungraciously, or perhaps excuse himself, rather than be taken away from
his company, Miss Heathcote concluded on essaying to walk home by
herself, for the first time in her life, after lamplight. As she turned
from the door, (which Peters immediately closed) she lingered awhile on
the step, looking out upon the increasing gloom, and afraid to venture
into it. However, as there seemed no alternative, she summoned all her
courage, and set off at a brisk pace. Her intention was to walk quietly
along without showing the slightest apprehension, but she involuntarily
shrunk aside whenever she met any of the other sex. On suddenly
encountering a row of young men, arm in arm, with each a segar in his
mouth, she came to a full stop, and actually shook with terror. They all
looked at her a moment, and then made way for her to pass, and she felt
as if she could have plunged into the wall to avoid touching them.
Presently our heroine met three sailors reeling along, evidently
intoxicated, and singing loudly. She kept as close as possible to the
curbstone, expecting nothing else than to be rudely accosted by them,
but they were too intent upon their song to notice her; though one of
them staggered against her, and pushed her off the pavement, so as
almost to throw her into the street.
Her way home lay directly in front of the Walnut Street Theatre, which
she felt it impossible to pass, as the people were just crowding in. And
she now blessed the plan of the city which enabled her to avoid this
inconvenience by "going round a square." The change of route took her
into a street comparatively silent and retired, and now her greatest
fear was of being seized and robbed. She would have given the world to
have met any gentleman of her acquaintance, determining, if she did so,
to request his protection home. At last she perceived one approaching,
whose appearance she thought was familiar to her, and as they came
within the light of a lamp, she found it to be Mr. Morland, an intimate
friend of her brother's. He looked at her with a scrutinizing glance, as
if he half-recognised her features under the shade of her hood. Poor
Harriet now felt ashamed and mortified that Mr. Morland should see her
alone and unprotected, walking in the street after dark. She had not
courage to utter a word, but, drawing her hood more closely over her
face, she glided hastily past him, and walked rapidly on. She had no
sooner turned the corner of the street, than she regretted having obeyed
the impulse of the moment, lamenting her want of presence of mind, and
reflecting how much better it would have been for her to have stopped
Mr. Morland, and candidly explained to him her embarrassing situation.
But it was now too late.
Presently there was a cry of fire, and the State House bell tolled out
north-east, which was exactly the contrary direction from Mr.
Heathcote's residence. Immediately an engine came thundering along the
street, accompanied by a hose, and followed by several others, and
Harriet found herself in the midst of the crowd and uproar, while the
light of the torches carried by the firemen glared full upon her. But
what had at first struck her with terror, she now perceived to be rather
an advantage than otherwise, for no one noticed her in the general
confusion, and it set every one to running the same way. She found, as
she approached her father's dwelling, that there was no longer any
danger of her being molested by man or boy, all being gone to the fire,
and the streets nearly deserted. Anxious to get home at all hazards, she
commenced running as fast as she could, and never stopped till she found
herself at her own door.
The family were amazed and alarmed when they saw Harriet run into the
parlour, pale, trembling, and almost breathless, and looking half dead
as she threw herself on the sofa, unable to speak; and she did not
recover from her agitation, till she had relieved the hurry of her
spirits by a flood of tears.
It was some minutes before Harriet was sufficiently composed to begin an
explanation of the events of the evening.
"It is true," said she, "that I have not been actually molested or
insulted, and I believe, after all, that in our orderly city there is
little real danger to be apprehended by females of respectable
appearance, when reduced to the sad necessity of walking alone in the
evening. But still the mere supposition, the bare possibility of being
thus exposed to the rudeness of the vulgar and unfeeling, will for ever
prevent me from again subjecting myself to so intolerable a situation. I
know not what could induce me again to go through all I have suffered
since I left Mrs. Tanfield's door.--And this will be my last attempt at
sociable visiting."
* * * * *
We submit it to the opinion of our fair readers, whether, in nine cases
out of ten, the visits of ladies do not "go off the better," if
anticipated by some previous intimation. We believe that our position
will be borne out by the experience both of the visiters and the
visited. Our heroine, as we have seen, did not only, on most of these
occasions, subject herself to much disappointment and annoyance, but she
was likewise the cause of considerable inconvenience to her
entertainers; and we can say with truth, that the little incidents we
have selected "to point our moral and adorn our tale," are all sketched
from life and reality.
COUNTRY LODGINGS.
"Chacun a son gout."--_French Proverb._