CHAP. I. The different characters of two ſiſters.

HARRIOT and Sophia were the daughters of a gentle⯑man, who, having ſpent a good paternal inheritance before he was five and thirty, was reduced to live upon the moderate ſalary of a place at court, which his friends procured him to get rid of his im⯑portunities. The ſame imprudence by which he had been governed in affairs of leſs importance, directed him [2] likewiſe in the choice of a wife: the woman he married had no merit but beauty, and brought with her to the houſe of a man whoſe fortune was already ruined, nothing but a taſte for luxury and expence, without the means of gratifying it.

Harriot, the eldeſt daughter of this couple, was, like her mother, a beauty, and upon that account, as well as the conformity of her tem⯑per and inclinations to hers, en⯑groſſed all her affection.

Sophia ſhe affected to deſpiſe, be⯑cauſe ſhe wanted in an equal degree thoſe perſonal attractions, which in her opinion conſtituted the whole of female perfection. Mere common judges, however, allowed her perſon to be agreeable; people of diſcern⯑ment and taſte pronounced her ſome⯑thing more. There was diffuſed throughout the whole perſon of So⯑phia a certain ſecret charm, a natu⯑ral [3] grace which cannot be defined; ſhe was not indeed ſo beautiful as her ſiſter, but ſhe was more attrac⯑tive; her complexion was not ſo fair as Harriot's, nor her features ſo re⯑gular, but together they were full of charms: her eyes were particularly fine, large, and full of fire, but that fire tempered with a tenderneſs ſo bewitching, as inſenſibly made its way to the heart. Harriot had beauty, but Sophia had ſomething more; ſhe had graces.

One of the moſt beautiful fictions of Homer, ſays the celebrated Mon⯑teſquieu, is that of the girdle which gave Venus the power of pleaſing. Nothing is more proper to give us an idea of the magick and force of the graces, which ſeem to be given to a perſon by ſome inviſible power, and are diſtinguiſhed from beauty it⯑ſelf.

Harriot's charms produced at the [4] firſt ſight all the effect they were ca⯑pable of; a ſecond look of Sophia was more dangerous than the firſt, for grace is ſeldomer found in the face than the manners; and, as our man⯑ner is formed every moment, a new ſurpriſe is perpetually creating. A woman can be beautiful but one way, ſhe can be graceful a thouſand.

Harriot was formed to be the ad⯑miration of the many; Sophia the paſſion of the few, the ſweet ſenſi⯑bility of her countenance, the pow⯑erful expreſſion of her eyes, the ſoft elegance of her ſhape and motion, a melodious voice, whoſe varied ac⯑cents enforced the ſenſible things ſhe always ſaid, were beauties not capa⯑ble of ſtriking vulgar minds; and which were ſure to be eclipſed by the dazling luſtre of her ſiſter's com⯑plexion, and the fire of two bright eyes, whoſe looks were as quick and unſettled as her thoughts.

[5]While Harriot was receiving the improvement of a polite education, Sophia was left to form herſelf as well as ſhe could; happily for her a juſt taſte and ſolid judgment ſupplied the place of teachers, precept, and example. The hours that Harriot waſted in dreſs, company, and gay amuſements, were by Sophia devoted to reading.

A good old gentleman, who was nearly related to her father, perceiv⯑ing this taſte in her, encouraged it by his praiſes, and furniſhed her with the means of gratifying it, by conſtantly ſupplying her with ſuch books as were beſt calculated to im⯑prove her morals and underſtanding. His admiration encreaſing in propor⯑tion as he had opportunities of ob⯑ſerving her merit, he undertook to teach her the French and Italian lan⯑guages, in which ſhe ſoon made a ſurpriſing progreſs; and by the time [6] ſhe had reached her fifteenth year, ſhe had read all the beſt authors in them, as well as in her own.

By this unwearied application to reading, her mind became a beauti⯑ful ſtore-houſe of ideas: hence ſhe derived the power and the habit of conſtant reflection, which at once enlarged her underſtanding, and con⯑firmed her in the principles of piety and virtue.

As ſhe grew older the manage⯑ment of the family entirely devolved upon her; for her mother had no taſte for any thing but pleaſure, and her ſiſter was taught to conſider her⯑ſelf as a fine lady, whoſe beauty could not fail to make her fortune, and whoſe ſole care it ought to be to dreſs to the greateſt advantage, and make her appearance in every place where ſhe might encreaſe the number of her admirers.

Sophia, in acquitting herſelf of [7] the duties of a houſe-keeper to her mother, ſhewed that the higheſt in⯑tellectual improvements were not in⯑compatible with the humbler cares of domeſtic life: every thing that went through her hands received a grace and propriety from the good ſenſe by which ſhe was directed; nor did her attention to family-affairs break in upon her darling amuſement reading.

People who know how to employ their time well are good economiſts of it. Sophia laid out hers in ſuch exact proportions, that ſhe had al⯑ways ſufficient for the ſeveral em⯑ployments ſhe was engaged in: the buſineſs of her life, like that of na⯑ture, was performed without noiſe, hurry, or confuſion.

The death of Mr. Darnley threw this little family into a deplorable ſtate of indigence, which was felt the more ſeverely, as they had hi⯑therto [8] lived in an affluence of all things, and the debts which an ex⯑pence ſo ill proportioned to their in⯑come had obliged Mr. Darnley to contract, left the unhappy widow and her children without any reſource. The plate, furniture, and every thing valuable were ſeized by the creditors. Mrs. Darnley and her daughters retired to a private lodg⯑ing, where the firſt days were paſſed in weak deſpondence on the part of the mother, in paſſionate repinings on that of the eldeſt daughter, and by Sophia in decent ſorrow and pious reſignation.

Mrs. Darnley however, by a natu⯑ral conſequence of her thoughtleſs temper, ſoon recovered her former gaiety. Preſent evils only were ca⯑pable of affecting her; reflection and forecaſt never diſturbed the ſettled calm of her mind. If the wants of one day were ſupplied, ſhe did not [9] conſider what inconveniences the next might produce. As for Harriot ſhe found reſources of comfort in the exalted ideas ſhe had of her own charms; and having already laid it down as a maxim, that poverty was the moſt ſhameful thing in the world, ſhe formed her reſolutions accord⯑ingly.

Sophia, as ſoon as her grief for the loſs of her father had ſubſided, be⯑gan to conſider of ſome plan for their future ſubſiſtence. She forbore how⯑ever to communicate her thoughts on this ſubject to her mother and ſiſter, who had always affected to treat every thing ſhe ſaid with contempt, the mean diſguiſe which envy had aſſumed to hide their conſciouſneſs of her ſuperior merit; but ſhe open⯑ed her mind to the good old gentle⯑man, to whom ſhe had been obliged for many of her improvements. She told him that being by his generous [10] cares qualified to undertake the edu⯑cation of a young lady, ſhe was de⯑ſirous of being received into the fa⯑mily of ſome perſon of diſtinction in the quality of governeſs to the daugh⯑ters of it, that ſhe might at once ſe⯑cure to herſelf a decent eſtabliſh⯑ment, and be enabled to aſſiſt her mother. She hinted that if her ſiſter could be alſo prevailed upon to enter into the ſervice of a lady of quality, they might jointly contribute their endeavours to make their mo⯑ther's life comfortable.

Mr. Herbert praiſed her deſign, and promiſed to mention it to Mrs. Darnley, to whom he conceived he might ſpeak with the greater free⯑dom, as his near relation to her huſband, and the long friendſhip which had ſubſiſted between them, gave him a right to intereſt himſelf in their affairs. The firſt words he uttered produced ſuch an emotion in [11] Mrs. Darnley's countenance, as con⯑vinced him that what he had farther to ſay would not be favourably re⯑ceived. She coloured, drew herſelf up with an air of dignity, looking at the ſame time at her eldeſt daughter with a ſcornful ſmile.

Mr. Herbert, however, continued his diſcourſe, when Harriot, with a pertneſs which ſhe took for wit, interrupted him by a loud laugh, and aſked him, if going to ſervice was the beſt proviſion he could think of for Mr. Darnley's daughters?

Mr. Herbert, turning haſtily to her, replied with a look of great gra⯑vity, and in a calm accent, ‘Have you, miſs, thought of any thing better?’

Harriot, without being diſconcert⯑ed, retorted very briſkly, ‘People who have nothing but advice to offer to their friends in diſtreſs, [12] ought to be ſilent till they are aſk⯑ed for it.’

"Good advice, Miſs," replied the old gentleman with the ſame compoſure, ‘is what every body cannot, and many will not give; and it is at, leaſt an inſtance of friendſhip to hazard it, where one may be almoſt ſure of its giving offence.’ But, continued he, turn⯑ing to Sophia, ‘my young pupil here has, I hope, not profited ſo little by her reading as to be igno⯑rant of the value of good counſel; and I promiſe her ſhe ſhall not only command the beſt that I am ca⯑pable of giving, but every other aſſiſtance ſhe may ſtand in need of.’ Saying this, he bowed and went away, without any attempts from Mrs. Darnley to detain him.

Poor Sophia, who was ſuppoſed by her ſilence to have acquieſced in the old gentleman's propoſal, was ex⯑poſed [13] to a thouſand reproaches for her meanneſs of ſpirit. She attempt⯑ed to ſhew the utility, and even the neceſſity of following his advice; but ſhe found on this occaſion, as ſhe had on many others, that with ſome per⯑ſons it is not ſafe to be reaſonable. Her arguments were anſwered with rage and invective, which ſoon ſilen⯑ced her, and increaſed the triumph of her imperious ſiſter.

Mr. Herbert, apprehenſive of the ill treatment ſhe was likely to be expoſed to, offered to place her in the family of a country clergyman, and to pay for her board till ſuch a ſettlement as ſhe deſired could be procured for her; but the tender Sophia, not willing to leave her mo⯑ther while ſhe could be of any uſe to her, gratefully declined his offer, ſtill expecting that the increaſing perplexity of their circumſtances might bring her to reliſh his reaſon⯑able [14] counſels, and that ſhe might have the ſanction of her conſent to a ſtep which prudence made neceſ⯑ſary to be taken.

A legacy of a hundred pounds be⯑ing left her by a young lady who tenderly loved her, and who died in her arms, ſhe immediately preſented it to her mother, by whom it was re⯑ceived with a tranſport of joy, but without any reflection upon the filial piety of her who gave it.

Sophia's good friend, though he did not abſolutely approve of this exalted ſtrain of tenderneſs, yet did not fail to place the merit of it in the fulleſt light: but Harriot, who never heard any praiſes of her ſiſter without a viſible emotion, interrupted him, by ſaying, that Sophia had only done what ſhe ought; and that ſhe herſelf would have acted in the ſame manner, if the ſum had been twenty times larger.

[15]The ſame delicacy which induced Sophia to diveſt herſelf of any par⯑ticular right to this ſmall legacy, made her ſee the miſapplication of it without diſcovering the leaſt mark of diſlike. Harriot, who governed her mother abſolutely, having repreſent⯑ed to her, that the obſcurity in which they lived was not the means to pre⯑ſerve their old friends, or to acquire new ones, and that it was their bu⯑ſineſs to appear again in the world, and put themſelves in the way of for⯑tune, which could not be done with⯑out making a decent appearance at leaſt; Mrs. Darnley, who thought this reaſoning unanſwerable, con⯑ſented to their changing their preſent lodgings for others more genteel, and to whatever expences her eldeſt daughter judged neceſſary to ſecure the ſucceſs of her ſcheme.

Sophia lamented in ſecret this ex⯑ceſs of imprudence; and to avoid be⯑ing [16] a witneſs of it, as well as to free her mother from the expence of her maintenance, ſhe reſolved to accept of the firſt genteel place that offered; but the natural ſoftneſs and timidity of her temper, made her delay as long as poſſible mentioning this deſign to her mother and ſiſter, leſt it ſhould be conſtrued into a tacit reproach of them for a conduct ſo very dif⯑ferent.

Indeed her condition was greatly altered for the worſe, ſince the pre⯑ſent ſhe had made of her legacy. Her mother and ſiſter had never loved her with any great degree of affection, and their tenderneſs for her was now entirely loſt in the uneaſy conſciouſ⯑neſs of having owed an obligation to her, for which they could not reſolve to be grateful. They no longer con⯑ſidered her as an inſignificant perſon whoſe approbation or diſlike was of no ſort of conſequence, but as a ſaucy [17] cenſurer of their actions, who aſſum⯑ed to herſelf a ſuperiority, on account of the paultry aſſiſtance ſhe had af⯑forded them: every thing ſhe ſaid was conſtrued into upbraidings of the benefit ſhe had conferred upon them. If ſhe offered her opinion upon any occaſion, Harriot would ſay to her with a malicious ſneer, ‘To be ſure you think you have a right to give us laws, becauſe we have had the misfortune to be obliged to you.’ And Mrs. Darnley, working herſelf up to an agony of grief and reſent⯑ment for the fancied inſult, would lift up her eyes and cry, ‘How much is that mother to be pitied who lives to receive alms from her child!’

Poor Sophia uſed to anſwer no otherwiſe than by tears: but this was ſure to aggravate her fault; for it was ſuppoſed that ſhe wept and appeared afflicted only to ſhew peo⯑ple [18] what ungrateful returns ſhe met with for her goodneſs.

Thus did the unhappy Sophia, with the ſofteſt ſenſibility of heart, and tendereſt affections, ſee herſelf excluded from the endearing teſti⯑monies of a mother's fondneſs, only by being too worthy of them, and expoſed to ſhocking ſuſpicions of undutifulneſs, for an action that ſhewed the higheſt filial affection: ſo true it is, that great virtues can⯑not be underſtood by mean and little minds, and with ſuch, not only loſe all their luſtre, but are too often miſtaken for the contrary vices.

CHAP. II. The Triumph of the Graces.

WHILE Sophia paſſed her time in melancholy reflecti⯑ons, Harriot, being by her generous gift enabled to make as ſhewy an appearance as her mourning habit would permit, again mixed in com⯑pany, and laid baits for admiration. Her beauty ſoon procured her a great number of lovers; her poverty made their approaches eaſy; and the weakneſs of her underſtanding, her inſipid gaiety, and pert affectation of wit, encouraged the moſt licentious hopes, and expoſed her to the moſt impertinent addreſſes.

Among thoſe who looking upon her as a conqueſt of no great difficul⯑ty formed the mortifying deſign of making a miſtreſs of her, was Sir [20] Charles Stanley, a young baronet of a large eſtate, a moſt agreeable per⯑ſon, and engaging addreſs: his fine qualities made him the delight of all who knew him, and even envy itſelf allowed him to be a man of the ſtricteſt honour and unblemiſhed in⯑tegrity.

Perſons who connect the idea of virtue and goodneſs with ſuch a cha⯑racter, would find it hard to con⯑ceive how a man who lives in a con⯑ſtant courſe of diſſimulation with one part of his ſpecies, and who abuſes the advantages he has received from nature and fortune, in ſubduing chaſ⯑tity, and enſnaring innocence, can poſſibly deſerve, and eſtabliſh a re⯑putation for honour! but ſuch are the illuſions of prejudice, and ſuch the tyranny of cuſtom, that he who is called a man of gallantry, is at the ſame time eſteemed a man of ho⯑nour, though gallantry comprehends [21] the worſt kind of fraud, cruelty, and injuſtice.

Sir Charles Stanley had been but too ſucceſsful in his attempts upon beauty, to fear being rejected by Miſs Darnley; and knowing her ſi⯑tuation, he reſolved to engage her gratitude at leaſt before he declared his deſigns. He had intereſt enough to procure the place her father en⯑joyed for a gentleman, who thought himſelf happy in obtaining it, though charged with an annuity of fourſcore pounds a year for the widow of his predeceſſor.

Sir Charles, in acquainting Miſs Darnley with what he had done in favour of her mother, found himſelf under no neceſſity of inſinuating his motive for the extraordinary intereſt he took in the affairs of this diſtreſt family. Harriot's vanity anticipated any declaration of this ſort, and the thanks ſhe gave him were accompa⯑nied [22] with ſuch an apparent conſci⯑ouſneſs of the power of her charms, as convinced him his work was al⯑ready more than half done.

He was now received at Mrs. Darnley's in the quality of a declared lover of Harriot; and although a⯑midſt all his aſſiduities he never men⯑tioned marriage, either the mother and daughter did not penetrate into his real deſigns, or were but too much diſpoſed to favour them.

The innocent heart of Sophia was at firſt overwhelmed with joy for the happy proviſion that had been made for her mother, and the proſpect of ſuch an advantageous match for her ſiſter, when Mr. Herbert, who knew the world too well to be impoſed up⯑on by theſe fine appearances, gently hinted to his young favourite, his ap⯑prehenſions of the baronet's diſho⯑nourable views.

Her delicacy was ſo ſhocked by [23] this ſuſpicion, that ſhe could ſcarce forbear expreſſing ſome little reſent⯑ment of it; but reflecting that this ardent lover of Harriot's had not yet made any propoſals of marriage, her good ſenſe immediately ſuggeſted to her, that ſuch affected delays in a man who was abſolutely indepen⯑dent, and with a woman whoſe ſitu⯑ation made it a point of delicacy to be early explicit on that head, could only proceed from intentions which he had not yet dared to own.

Chance had ſo ordered it, that hi⯑therto ſhe had never ſeen Sir Charles Stanley; whenever he came, ſhe was either employed in the family affairs, or engaged with her books, which it was no eaſy matter to make her quit. Beſides, as ſhe had no ſhare in his viſits, and as her ſiſter never ſhewed any inclination to introduce her to him, ſhe thought it did not become her to intrude herſelf upon [24] his acquaintance. Sir Charles indeed, knowing that Mrs. Darnley had an⯑other daughter, uſed ſometimes to enquire for her, but was neither ſur⯑priſed nor diſappointed that ſhe never appeared.

Sophia, however, was determined to be in the way when he came next, that ſhe might have an oppor⯑tunity of obſerving his behaviour to her ſiſter; and fondly flattered her⯑ſelf that ſhe ſhould diſcover nothing to the diſadvantage of a perſon, whom her grateful heart had taught itſelf to love and eſteem as their common benefactor.

Sir Charles at the next viſit found Sophia in the room with her ſiſter. He inſtantly ſaw ſomething in her looks and perſon which inſpired him with more reſpect than he had been uſed to feel for Mrs. Darnley and Harriot; a dignity which ſhe de⯑rived from innate virtue, and ex⯑alted [25] underſtanding. Struck with that inexplicable charm in her coun⯑tenance which made it impoſſible to look on her with indifference, he began to conſider her with an at⯑tention which greatly diſguſted Har⯑riot, who could not conceive that where ſhe was preſent any other object was worthy notice.

Sophia herſelf was a little diſcon⯑certed by the young baronet's ſo earneſtly gazing on her; and, in or⯑der to divert his looks, opened a converſation in which her ſiſter might bear a part. Then it was, that without deſigning it, ſhe diſ⯑played her whole power of charm⯑ing: that flow of wit which was ſo natural to her, the elegant pro⯑priety of her language, the deli⯑cacy of her ſentiments, the ani⯑mated look which gave them new force, and ſent them directly to the heart, and the moving graces of [26] the moſt harmonious voice in the world, were attractions, which, though generally loſt on fools, ſel⯑dom fail of their effect on the heart of a man of ſenſe.

Sir Charles was wrapt in wonder and delight; he had no eyes, no ears, but for Sophia: he ſcarce per⯑ceived that Harriot was in the room.

The inſolent beauty, aſtoniſhed at ſuch unuſual neglect, varied her at⯑titude and her charms a thouſand different ways to draw his attention; but found all was to no purpoſe. Had ſhe been capable of ſerious re⯑flection, ſhe might now have diſco⯑vered what advantages her ſiſter, though inferior to her in beauty, gained over her, by the force of her underſtanding: ſhe might now have ſeen,

[27] But too ignorant to know her own wants, and too conceited to imagine ſhe had any, ſhe was ſtrangely perplexed how to account for ſo ſudden an alteration in Sir Charles.

Her uneaſineſs, however, grew ſo great, that ſhe was not able to con⯑ceal it. She ſhifted her ſeat two or three times in a minute, bit her lips almoſt through, and frowned ſo intelligibly, that Sophia at laſt perceiving her agitation, ſuddenly recollected herſelf, and quitted the room upon pretence of buſineſs.

When ſhe was gone, Harriot drawing herſelf up, and aſſuming a look which expreſſed her confi⯑dence in the irreſiſtible power of her charms, ſeemed reſolved to make her lover repent the little no⯑tice he had taken of her in this viſit by playing off a thouſand ſcornful airs upon him; but ſhe [28] was more mortified than ever, when upon turning her eyes towards him, in full expectation of finding his fixed upon her, ſhe ſaw them bent upon the ground, and ſuch a pen⯑ſiveneſs in his countenance, as all her rigors could never yet oc⯑caſion.

She was conſidering what to ſay to him to draw him out of this re⯑verie, when Sir Charles, on a ſud⯑den raiſing his eyes, turned them towards the door with a look of mingled anxiety and impatience, and then, as if diſappointed, ſighed and addreſſed ſome indifferent con⯑verſation to Harriot.

The lady, now quite provoked, had recourſe to an artifice which her ſhallow underſtanding ſuggeſted to her, as an infallible method of awakening his tenderneſs, and this was to make him jealous. With⯑out any preparation, therefore, ſhe [29] introduced the name of Lord L—, a young nobleman who was juſt re⯑turned from his travels, and laviſh⯑ing a thouſand encomiums upon his perſon, and his elegant taſte in dreſs, added, ‘That he was the beſt bred man in the world, and had entertained her ſo agreeably one night at the play, when hap⯑pening to come into a box where ſhe was with a lady of her ac⯑quaintance, that they did not mind a word the players ſaid, he was ſo diverting.’

Sir Charles coldly anſwered, ‘That Lord L— was a very pretty youth, and that he was intimate⯑ly acquainted with him.’

"Oh then," cried Harriot, with a great deal of affected joy, ‘I vow and proteſt you ſhall bring him to ſee me.’

‘Indeed you muſt excuſe me, [30] madam,’ ſaid Sir Charles with ſome quickneſs.

Harriot, concluding her ſtratagem had taken effect, was quite tranſ⯑ported, and renewed her attacks, determined to make him ſuffer as much as poſſible; but the young baronet, whoſe thoughts were full of Sophia, and whoſe emotion at the requeſt Harriot had made him, was occaſioned by fears very diffe⯑rent from thoſe ſhe ſuſpected, took no further notice of what ſhe ſaid, but interrupted her to aſk how old her ſiſter Sophia was?

‘I dare engage, replied Harriot, you would never have ſuppoſed her to be younger than I am.’

The baronet ſmiled, and looking at his watch, ſeemed ſurpriſed that it was ſo late, and took his leave.

Miſs Darnley following him to the door of the room, cried, ‘Re⯑member I lay my commands up⯑on [31] you to bring my Lord L— to ſee me.’

Sir Charles anſwered her no otherwiſe than by a low bow, and ſhe returned, delighted at the part⯑ing pang which ſhe ſuppoſed ſhe had given him. Vanity is extreme⯑ly ingenious in procuring gratifica⯑tions for itſelf.

CHAP. III. The Young Baronet declares his Paſſion.

HARRIOT did not doubt but that ſhe had tormented Sir Charles ſufficiently; and it was the unſhaken confidence which ſhe had in the power of her charms, that hindered her from diſcovering the true cauſe of the new diſguſt ſhe had conceived for her ſiſter. How⯑ever, it was ſo great that ſhe could ſcarcely ſpeak to her civilly, or en⯑dure her in her ſight: yet ſhe found an increaſe of pleaſure in talking to her mother when ſhe was preſent, of the violent paſſion Sir Charles Stanley had for her, and in giving an exaggerated account of the profeſſions he made her.

[33]Sophia did not liſten to this ſort of diſcourſe with her uſual complai⯑ſance. Her mind became inſen⯑ſibly more diſpoſed to ſuſpect the ſincerity of the baronet's paſſion for her ſiſter: ſhe grew penſive and me⯑lancholy, ſought ſolitude more than ever, and loved reading leſs.

This change, which her own in⯑nocence hid from herſelf, was quickly perceived by Mr. Herbert, who loved her with a parent's fond⯑neſs, and thought nothing indiffe⯑rent which concerned her. He took occaſion one day to mention Sir Charles Stanley to her, and aſked her opinion of his perſon and un⯑derſtanding, keeping his eyes fixed upon her at the ſame time, which diſconcerted her ſo much that ſhe bluſhed; and though ſhe com⯑mended him greatly, yet it was eaſy to diſcover that ſhe forbore to [34] ſay all the good ſhe thought of him, for fear of ſaying too much.

Mr. Herbert no longer doubted but this dangerous youth had made an impreſſion on the innocent heart of Sophia, which was ſtill igno⯑rant of its own emotions.

He had perceived for ſome time that Sir Charles had changed the object of his purſuits: his viſits now were always ſhort, unleſs So⯑phia was in the way: he brought her all the new books and pam⯑phlets that were publiſhed which were worth her reading: he adopt⯑ed the purity and delicacy of her ſentiments, declared himſelf always of the ſide ſhe eſpouſed: he talk⯑ed of virtue like a man who loved and practiſed it, and ſet all his own good qualities in the faireſt light: he preſented Harriot from time to time with faſhionable trifles, and ſent Sophia books enough to fur⯑niſh [35] out a little library, conſiſting of the beſt authors, in Engliſh, French, and Italian, all elegantly bound, with proper caſes for their reception: he praiſed whatever ſhe approved, and appeared to have great reſpect and conſideration for Mr. Herbert, becauſe he obſerved ſhe loved and eſteemed him.

That faithful friend of the vir⯑tuous Sophia trembled for her dan⯑ger, when he conſidered that by this artful management the baronet was ſtrengthening himſelf every day in her good opinion, and ſeducing her affections under the appearance of meriting her eſteem; yet he did not think it proper to give her even a hint of her ſituation. A young maid has paſſed over the firſt bounds of reſervedneſs, who allows herſelf to think ſhe is in love.

Mr. Herbert would not familia⯑rize her with ſo dangerous an idea: [36] he knew her extreme modeſty, her ſolid virtue; he was under no apprehenſions that ſhe would ever act unworthy of her cha⯑racter; but a heart ſo nicely ſen⯑ſible, ſo delicately tender as hers, he knew muſt ſuffer greatly from a diſappointed paſſion; and this was what he wanted to prevent, not by wounding her delicacy with ſuggeſt⯑ing to her that ſhe was in love, but by preſerving her from the ſecret encroachments of that paſſion.

He reminded her of the deſign ſhe had formerly mentioned to him of entering into the ſervice of a lady, and was rejoiced to find that ſhe ſtill continued her reſolution. Harriot's natural inſolence and ill temper, irritated by the change ſhe now plainly ſaw in Sir Charles, made home ſo diſagreeable to So⯑phia, that ſhe wiſhed impatiently for an opportunity of providing for [37] herſelf, that ſhe might no longer live upon the bounty of her ſiſter, who often inſinuated that their mo⯑ther's annuity was her gift.

Mr. Herbert, who had other rea⯑ſons beſides thoſe urged, from free⯑ing her from ſo uneaſy a depen⯑dence, promiſed to be diligent in his enquiries for ſomething that would ſuit her.

Neither Mrs. Darnley nor Har⯑riot now oppoſed this deſign, which ſoon came to the knowledge of Sir Charles, who had bribed a ſervant of the family to give him intelligence of every thing that paſſed in it.

Impatient to prevent the execu⯑tion of it, and tortured by the bare apprehenſion of Sophia's abſence; he reſolved to break through that con⯑ſtraint he had ſo long laid upon him⯑ſelf, and acquaint her with his paſſion.

But it was not eaſy to find an opportunity of ſpeaking to her a⯑lone. [38] At length having contrived to get Harriot engaged to a play, and prevailed upon a maiden kinſ⯑woman of his to invite Mrs. Darn⯑ley to a party at whiſt, he went to the houſe at his uſual hour of viſit⯑ing this little family, and found Sophia at home, and without any company.

Not all the confidence he derived from his rank and fortune, his fine underſtanding, and thoſe perſonal graces which gave him but too much merit in the eyes of many women, could hinder him from trembling at the thought of that declaration he was about to make.

As ſoon as he came into Sophia's preſence he was awed, diſconcerted, and unable to ſpeak; ſuch was the power of virtue, and ſuch the force of a real paſſion! Two or three times he reſolved to begin; but when he looked upon Sophia, [39] and ſaw in her charming eyes that ſparkling intelligence which diſ⯑played the treaſures of the ſoul that animated them; when he obſerved the ſweet ſeverity of her modeſt countenance, the compoſed dignity of her behaviour, he durſt not own a paſſion which had views leſs pure than the perfect creature that in⯑ſpired it.

His converſation for near an hour was ſo confuſed, ſo disjointed, and interrupted by ſuch frequent mu⯑fings, that Sophia was amazed, and thought it ſo diſagreeable, and un⯑like what it uſed to be, that ſhe was not ſorry when he ſeemed diſ⯑poſed to put an end to his viſit.

Sir Charles indeed roſe up to be gone, but with ſo deep a concern in his eyes as increaſed Sophia's perplexity. She attended him re⯑ſpectfully to the door of the room, when he ſuddenly turning back, [40] and taking her hand, ‘Do not hate me, ſaid he, nor think ill of me, if I tell you that I love and adore you.’

Sophia in the utmoſt confuſion at ſuch a ſpeech, diſengaged her hand from his, and retiring a few ſteps back, bent her eyes on the ground, and continued ſilent.

Sir Charles, emboldened by her confuſion, made a tender, and at the ſame time, reſpectful declara⯑tion of the paſſion he had long felt for her.

Sophia, not willing to hear him enlarge upon this ſubject, raiſed her eyes from the ground; her cheeks were indeed overſpread with bluſhes, but there was a grave compoſure in her looks that ſeemed a bad omen to Sir Charles.

‘I have hitherto flattered myſelf, ſir, ſaid ſhe, that you entertain⯑ed a favourable opinion of me, [41] how happens it then that I ſee myſelf to-day expoſed to your raillery?’

The baronet was beginning a thouſand proteſtations, but Sophia ſtopt him ſhort. ‘If your pro⯑feſſions to me are ſincere, ſaid ſhe, what am I to think of thoſe you made to my ſiſter?’

Sir Charles expected this retort, and was the leſs perplexed by it, as he needed only to follow the dic⯑tates of truth to form ſuch an an⯑ſwer as was proper to be given. ‘I acknowleged, ſaid he, that I ad⯑mired your ſiſter, and her beauty made as ſtrong an impreſſion upon me, as mere beauty can make upon a man who has a taſte for higher excellencies. I ſought Miſs Darnley's acquaintance. I was ſo happy as to do her ſome little ſervice. I wiſhed to find in her thoſe qualities that were [42] neceſſary to fix my heart—Par⯑don my freedom, Miſs Sophia, the occaſion requires that I ſhould ſpeak freely. Miſs Darnley, upon a nearer acquaintance, did not anſwer the idea I had formed to myſelf of a woman whom I could love for life; and the pro⯑feſſions I made her, as you are pleaſed to call them, were no more than expreſſions of gallan⯑try; a ſort of homage which beauty, even when it does not touch the heart, exacts from the tongue. My heart was not ſo eaſy a conqueſt—tell me not of raillery, when I declare that none but yourſelf was ever capa⯑ble of inſpiring me with a real paſſion.’

The arrival of Mr. Herbert proved a grateful interruption to Sophia, in whoſe innocent breaſt the tenderneſs and apparent ſin⯑cerity [43] of this declaration raiſed emotions which ſhe knew not how to diſguiſe.

Sir Charles, though grieved at this unſeaſonable viſit, yet with⯑drew, not wholly deſpairing of ſucceſs. He had heedfully obſerv⯑ed the changes in Sophia's face while he was ſpeaking, and thought he had reaſon to hope that he was not indifferent to her. Loving her as he did with exceſſive tenderneſs, what pure and unmixed ſatisfaction would this thought have given him, had he not been conſcious that his deſigns were unworthy of her! The ſecret upbraidings of his conſcience diſquieted him amidſt all his flattering hopes of ſucceſs; but cuſtom, prejudice, the inſolence of fortune, and the force of example, all conſpired to ſuppreſs the pleadings of honour and juſtice in favour of the amiable [44] Sophia, and fixed him in the bar⯑barous reſolution of attempting to corrupt that virtue which made her ſo worthy of his love.

CHAP. IV. In which Harriot makes a very con⯑temptible Figure.

MR. Herbert having, as has been already mentioned, in⯑terrupted the converſation between Sir Charles and Sophia, was not ſurpriſed at the young baronet's ab⯑rupt departure, as he ſeemed pre⯑paring to go when he came in; but upon looking at Sophia, he per⯑ceived ſo many ſigns of confuſion and perplexity in her countenance, that he did not doubt but the diſ⯑courſe which his entrance had put an end to, had been a very inte⯑reſting one. He waited a moment, in expectation that ſhe would open herſelf to him; but finding that ſhe continued ſilent and abaſhed, he gently took her hand, and looking [46] tenderly upon her, ‘Tell me, my child, ſaid he, has not ſomething extraordinary happened, which occaſions this confuſion I ſee you in?’

‘Sir Charles has indeed been talking to me, replied Sophia bluſhing, in a very extraordinary manner, and ſuch as I little ex⯑pected.’

Mr. Herbert preſſed her to ex⯑plain herſelf, and ſhe gave him an exact account of Sir Charles's diſ⯑courſe to her, without loſing a word; ſo faithful had her memory been to all he had ſaid.

Mr. Herbert liſtened to her at⯑tentively, and found ſomething ſo like candor and ſincerity in the ba⯑ronet's declaration, that he could not help being pleaſed with it. He had never indeed judged favourably of his views upon Harriot, but here the caſe was very different.

[47]Harriot's ignorance, vanity, and eager deſire of being admired, ex⯑poſed her to the attacks of liberti⯑niſm, and excited preſumptuous hopes.

Sophia's good ſenſe, modeſty, and virtue, placed her out of the reach of temptation. No one could think it ſurpriſing that a man of ſenſe ſhould make the fortune of a woman who would do honour to his choice, and where there was ſuch exalted merit as in Sophia, overlook the diſparity of circum⯑ſtances.

But juſtly might it be called in⯑fatuation and folly, to raiſe to rank and affluence a woman of Harriot's deſpicable turn; to make a com⯑panion for life of a handſome ideot, who thought the higheſt excellen⯑cies of the female character were to know how to dreſs, to dance, to ſing, to flutter in a drawing-room, [48] or coquet at a play; who miſtook pertneſs for wit, confidence for knowledge, and inſolence for dignity.

While he was revolving theſe thoughts in his mind, Sophia looked earneſtly at him, pleaſed to obſerve that what the baronet had ſaid ſeemed worthy his conſidera⯑tion.

Mr. Herbert, who read in her looks that ſhe wiſhed to have his advice on this occaſion, but would not aſk it, leſt ſhe ſhould ſeem to lay any ſtreſs upon Sir Charles's de⯑claration, told her it was very poſſi⯑ble the baronet was ſincere in what he had ſaid to her; that his man⯑ner of accounting for his quitting her ſiſter, was both ſenſible and candid; that ſhe ought not to be ſurpriſed at the preference he gave her over Miſs Darnley, ſince ſhe deſerved it by the care ſhe had taken [49] to improve her mind, and to acquire qualities which might procure the eſ⯑teem of all wiſe and virtuous perſons.

He warned her, however, not to truſt too much to favourable ap⯑pearances, nor to ſuffer her incli⯑nations to be ſo far engaged by the agreeable perſon and ſpecious beha⯑viour of Sir Charles Stanley, as to find it painful to renounce him, if he ſhould hereafter ſhew himſelf unworthy of her good opinion.

He adviſed her, when he talked to her in the ſame ſtrain again, to refer him to her mother and to him for an anſwer; and told her that he would ſave her the confuſion and perplexity of acquainting her mo⯑ther and ſiſter with what had hap⯑pened, by taking that taſk upon himſelf.

‘You will, no doubt, added he, be expoſed to ſome ſallies of ill [50] temper from Miſs Darnley, for robbing her of a lover; for envy is more irreconcileable than hatred: but let not your ſenſibility ſuffer much on her account; if you de⯑prive her of a lover, you do not deprive her of one ſhe loves: ſhe is too vain, too volatile, and too greedy of general admiration, to be affected with the loſs of Sir Charles, any farther than as her pride is wounded by it: and one would imagine ſhe had foreſeen this deſertion by the pains ſhe has taken about a new conqueſt lately.’

Mr. Herbert was going on, when Mrs. Darnley knocked at the door. Sophia in extreme agitation, begged him to ſay nothing concerning Sir Charles that evening. He promiſed her he would not, and they all three converſed together upon indifferent [51] things, until Harriot returned from the play.

Mr. Herbert then took leave of them, after inviting himſelf to breakfaſt the next morning; which threw Sophia into ſuch terror and confuſion, that ſhe retired haſtily to her own room to conceal her diſ⯑order.

Mr. Herbert came the next morning, according to his promiſe; and Sophia all trembling with her apprehenſions retiring immediately after breakfaſt, he entered upon the buſineſs that had brought him thither; but ſenſible that what he had to ſay would prove extremely mortifying to miſs Harriot, he thought it not amiſs to ſweeten the bitter bill he was preparing for her, by ſacrificing a little flattery to her pride.

‘You fine ladies, ſaid he, ad⯑dreſſing himſelf to her with a ſmile, are never weary of extend⯑ing [52] your conqueſts; but you uſe your power with ſo much ty⯑ranny that it is not ſurpriſing ſome of your ſlaves ſhould aſ⯑ſume courage at laſt, to break your chains. Do you know, my pretty couſin, that you have loſt Sir Charles Stanley; and that he has offered that heart which you no doubt have deſpiſed, to your ſiſter Sophia?’

Miſs Darnley, who had bridled up at the beginning of this ſpeech, loſt all her aſſumed dignity towards the end of it: her face grew pale and red by turns; ſhe fixed her eyes on the ground, her boſom heaved with the violence of her agitations, and tears, in ſpite of her, were ready to force their way.

Sir Charles had indeed for a long time diſcontinued his addreſſes to her, and had ſuffered his inclina⯑tion for her ſiſter to appear plainly [53] enough; but ſtill her vanity ſug⯑geſted to her that this might be all a feint, and acted only with a view to alarm her fears, and oblige her to ſacrifice all her other admirers to him.

What Mr. Herbert had ſaid therefore, ſtruck her at firſt with aſtoniſhment and grief; but ſolici⯑tous to maintain the fancied ſuperi⯑ority of her character, ſhe endea⯑voured to repreſs her emotions; and taking the hint which he had de⯑ſignedly thrown out to her to ſave her confuſion.

‘Sir Charles has acted very wiſely, ſaid ſhe, putting on a ſcornful look, to quit me who al⯑ways deſpiſed him, for one who has been ſo little uſed to have lovers, that ſhe will be ready to run mad with joy at the thoughts of ſuch a conqueſt; but, after all, ſhe has only my leavings.’

[54]Mr. Herbert, though a little ſhocked at the groſſneſs of her lan⯑guage, replied gravely, ‘However that may be, Miſs, it is certain that he has made a very open, and to all appearance, ſincere declaration of love to Miſs So⯑phia, who not knowing how to mention this affair to her mother herſelf, commiſſioned me to ac⯑quaint her with it, that ſhe may have directions how to behave to Sir Charles, and what to ſay to him.’

‘One would have imagined, in⯑terrupted Miſs Darnley eagerly, that ſhe who ſets up for ſo much wit, and reads ſo many books, might have known what to ſay to him.’

‘Pray, Miſs, ſaid Mr. Herbert, what would you have had her ſay to Sir Charles?’

[55] ‘Why truly, replied ſhe, I think ſhe ought to have told him that he was very impertinent, and have ſhewn him the door.’

‘Sure, Harriot, ſaid Mrs. Darn⯑ley, who had been ſilent all this time, You forget that Sir Charles is our benefactor, and that I am obliged to him for all the little ſupport I have.’

‘It is not likely I ſhould forget it, retorted Miſs Darnley, ſince I am the perſon who am moſt obliged to him for what he has done; if I miſtake not, it was upon my account that he in⯑tereſted himſelf in our affairs.’

‘Well, well, Harriot, replied Mrs. Darnley, I have been told this often enough; but why ſhould you be angry at this proſ⯑pect of your ſiſter's advance⯑ment?’

[56] ‘I angry at her advancement, madam! exclaimed Miſs Har⯑riot, not I really: I wiſh the girl was provided for by a ſuita⯑ble match with all my heart; but as for Sir Charles, I would not have her ſet her fooliſh heart upon him; he is only laughing at her.’

‘It may be ſo, ſaid Mr. Her⯑bert, though I think Miſs Sophia the laſt woman in the world whom a man would chuſe to laugh at. However, this affair is worth a little conſideration— Miſs Sophia, madam, purſued he, addreſſing himſelf to Mrs. Darnley, intends to refer Sir Charles entirely to you. You will be the beſt judge whether the paſſion he profeſſes is ſincere, and his intentions honourable; and I can anſwer for my young couſin, that ſhe will be wholly [57] governed by your advice, ſince it is impoſſible that you can give her any but what is moſt advan⯑tageous to her honour and hap⯑pineſs.’

Harriot, no longer able to ſup⯑preſs her rage and envy, was thrown ſo far off her guard as to burſt into tears. ‘I cannot bear to be thus inſulted, cried ſhe; and I declare if Sir Charles is permitted to go on with his foolery with that vain girl, I will quit the houſe.’

‘Was there ever any one ſo un⯑reaſonable as you are, Miſs, ſaid Mr. Herbert; have you not owned that you deſpiſed Sir Charles; and if your ſiſter is a vain girl, will ſhe not be ſufficiently mortified by accepting your leavings, as you ſaid juſt now?’

‘I am ſpeaking to my mother, ſir, replied Harriot, with a con⯑temptuous frown; depend upon [58] it, Madam, purſued ſhe, that I will not ſtay to be ſacrificed to Mr. Herbert's favourite—either ſhe ſhall be forbid to give Sir Charles any encouragement, who after all, is only laughing at her, or I will leave the houſe.’

Saying this, ſhe flung out of the room, leaving her mother divided between anger and grief, and Mr. Herbert motionleſs with aſtoniſh⯑ment.

CHAP. V. Sir Charles, by a proper Degree of Addreſs and Aſſurance, extricates himſelf from a very preſſing diffi⯑culty.

MR. Herbert having recovered from the aſtoniſhment into which he had been thrown by the ſtrange behaviour of Miſs Darnley, endeavoured to comfort her mo⯑ther, whoſe weak mind was more diſpoſed to be alarmed at the threat ſhe had uttered upon her quitting the room, than to reſent ſuch an inſult to parental tenderneſs.

After gently inſinuating to her, that ſhe ought to reduce her eldeſt daughter to reaſon, by a proper ex⯑ertion of her authority, he earneſt⯑ly recommended to her to be parti⯑cularly attentive to an affair which [60] concerned the happineſs of her youngeſt child, from whoſe piety and good ſenſe ſhe might promiſe herſelf ſo much comfort.

He adviſed her to give Sir Charles Stanley an opportunity of explaining himſelf to her as ſoon as poſſible; and to make him comprehend, that he muſt not hope for permiſſion to pay his addreſſes to Sophia, till he had ſatisfied her that his intentions were ſuch, as ſhe ought to ap⯑prove.

Mrs. Darnley appeared ſo docile and complaiſant upon this occa⯑ſion, ſo ready to take advice, and ſo fully determined to be directed by it, that Mr. Herbert went away extremely well ſatisfied with her behaviour, and full of pleaſing hopes for his beloved Sophia.

Harriot, in the mean time, was tormenting her ſiſter above ſtairs: [61] ſhe had entered her room with a heart full of bitterneſs, and a coun⯑tenance inflamed with rage, throw⯑ing the door after her with ſuch violence, that Sophia letting fall her book, ſtarted up in great terror, and, in a trembling accent, aſked what was the matter with her?

Her own apprehenſions had in⯑deed already ſuggeſted to her the cauſe of the diſorder ſhe appeared to be in, which it was not eaſy to diſcover, in that torrent of reproach and invective with which ſhe ſtrove to overwhelm her. Scornful and unjuſt reflections upon her perſon, bitter jeſts upon her pedantic af⯑fectation, and malignant inſinuations of hypocriſy, were all thrown out with the utmoſt incoherence of paſſion; to which Sophia anſwered no otherwiſe than by a provoking ſerenity of countenance, and the moſt calm attention.

[62]That ſhe was able to bear with ſuch moderation the cruel inſults of her ſiſter, was not more the ef⯑fect of her natural ſweetneſs of temper, than her good ſenſe and de⯑licate turn of mind. The upper region of the air, ſays a ſenſible French writer, admits neither clouds nor tempeſts; the thunder, ſtorms, and meteors, are formed below: ſuch is the difference between a mean, and an exalted underſtand⯑ing.

Harriot, who did not find her account in this behaviour, ſought to rouſe her rage by reproaches ſtill more ſevere, till having ineffectually railed herſelf out of breath, ſhe auk⯑wardly imitated her ſiſter's compo⯑ſure, folded her hands before her, and ſeating herſelf, aſked her in a low but ſolemn tone of voice, whe⯑ther ſhe would deign to anſwer her one plain queſtion?

[63]Sophia then reſuming her ſeat, told her with a look of mingled dignity and ſweetneſs, that ſhe was ready to anſwer her any queſtion, and give her any ſatisfaction ſhe could deſire, provided ſhe would re⯑preſs thoſe indecent tranſports of anger, ſo unbecoming her ſex and years.

‘Why, you little envious crea⯑ture,’ ſaid Harriot, ‘you do not ſurely, becauſe you are two or three years younger than I am, pretend to inſinuate that I am old?’

"No certainly," replied Sophia, half ſmiling; ‘my meaning is, that you are too young to adopt, as you do, all the peeviſhneſs of old age; but your queſtion, ſiſter,’ purſued ſhe—

"Well then," ſaid Harriot, ‘I aſk you, how you have dared to ſay that Sir Charles Stanley was [64] tired of me, and preferred you to me?’

"Tired of you!" repeated So⯑phia, ſhocked at her coarſeneſs and falſhood, ‘I never was capable of making uſe of ſuch an expreſ⯑ſion, nor do I familiarize myſelf with ideas that need ſuch ſtrange language to convey them.’

Harriot, provoked almoſt to fren⯑zy by this hint, which her indiſ⯑creet conduct made but too juſt, flew down ſtairs to her mother, and with mingled ſobs and excla⯑mations, told her, that Sophia had treated her like an infamous crea⯑ture, who had diſhonoured herſelf and her family.

Mrs. Darnley, though more fa⯑vourably diſpoſed towards her young⯑eſt daughter, ſince ſhe had been made acquainted with the baronet's affection for her, yet was on this occaſion governed by her habitual [65] preference of Harriot; and ſending for Sophia, ſhe reproved her with great aſperity for her inſolent beha⯑viour to her ſiſter.

Sophia liſtened with reverence to her mother's reproofs; and after juſtifying herſelf, as ſhe eaſily might, from the accuſation her ſiſter had brought againſt her, ſhe added, that not being willing to be expoſed to any farther perſecutions on account of Sir Charles Stanley, whoſe ſince⯑rity ſhe thought very doubtful, ſhe was reſolved not to wait any longer for a place, ſuch as Mr. Herbert's tenderneſs was in ſearch of for her, but to accept the firſt reputable one that offered.

"I have not the vanity, madam," purſued ſhe, ‘to imagine that a man of rank and fortune can ſeriouſly reſolve to marry an in⯑digent young woman like me; and although I am humble e⯑nough [66] to go to ſervice, I am too proud to liſten to the addreſſes of any man who, from his ſupe⯑riority of fortune, thinks he has a right to keep me in doubt of his intentions, or, in a mean de⯑pendance upon a reſolution which he has not perhaps regard enough for me to make.’

This diſcourſe was not all reliſh⯑ed by Mrs. Darnley, who conceived that many inconveniencies were to be ſubmitted to, for the enjoyment of affluence and pleaſure; but So⯑phia, who had revolved in her mind all the mortifications a young wo⯑man is expoſed to, whoſe poverty places her ſo greatly below her lo⯑ver; that ſhe is to conſider his pro⯑feſſions as an honour, and be re⯑joiced at every indication of his ſincerity; her delicacy was ſo much wounded by the bare apprehenſion of ſuffering what ſhe thought an [67] indignity to her ſex, that ſhe was determined to give Sir Charles Stanley no encouragement, but to purſue her firſt deſign of ſeeking a decent eſtabliſhment, ſuitable to the depreſſed ſtate of her fortune.

Mrs. Darnley, however, com⯑batted her reſolution with argu⯑ments which ſhe ſuppoſed abſolutely concluſive; and added to them her commands not to think any more of ſo humiliating a deſign, which ſo offended Harriot, that ſhe broke out again into tears, exclamations, and reproaches.

Her mother would have found it a difficult taſk to have pacified her, had not a meſſage from a lady, in⯑viting her to a concert that evening, obliged her to calm her mind, that her complexion might not ſuffer from thoſe emotions of rage which ſhe had hitherto taken no pains to repreſs.

[68]As ſoon as Harriot retired, to begin the labours of the toilet, Mrs. Darnley, with great mildneſs, re⯑preſented to Sophia, that it was her duty to improve the affection Sir Charles expreſſed for her, ſince by that means it might be in her power to make her mother and her ſiſter eaſy in their circumſtances, and engage their love for ever.

This was attacking Sophia on her weak ſide; ſhe anſwered with the ſofteſt tenderneſs of look and accent, ‘That it was her higheſt ambition to make them happy.’

"Then I do not doubt, my child," ſaid Mrs. Darnley, ‘but you will employ all your good ſenſe to ſecure the conqueſt you have made.’

Sophia, melted almoſt to tears by theſe tender expreſſions, to which ſhe had been ſo little uſed, aſſured her mother ſhe would upon this [69] occaſion act in ſuch a manner as to deſerve her kindneſs.

Mrs. Darnley would have been better pleaſed if ſhe had been leſs reſerved, and had appeared more affected with the fine proſpect that was opening for her; but it was not poſſible to preſs her farther. Na⯑ture here had transferred the pa⯑rent's rights to the child, and the gay, imprudent, ambitious mother, ſtood awed and abaſhed in the pre⯑ſence of her worthier daughter.

Sophia, who expected Sir Charles would renew his viſit in the even⯑ing, paſt the reſt of the day in uneaſy perturbations. He entered the houſe juſt at the time that Har⯑riot, who had ordered a chair to be got for her, came fluttering down the ſtairs in full dreſs. As ſoon as ſhe perceived him, her cheeks glow⯑ed with reſentment; but affecting a careleſs inattention, ſhe ſhot by him [70] with a half courteſy, and made to⯑wards the door: he followed, and accoſting her with a grave but re⯑ſpectful air, deſired ſhe would per⯑mit him to lead her to her chair. Harriot, conveying all the ſcorn in⯑to her face which the expreſſion of her pretty but unmeaning features were capable of, and rudely draw⯑ing away her hand, "Pray, Sir," ſaid ſhe, ‘carry your devores where they will be more acceptable; I am not diſpoſed to be jeſted with any longer.’

Sir Charles, half-ſmiling, and bowing low, told her, that he re⯑ſpected her too much, as well upon her own account as upon Miſs So⯑phia's, for whom indeed he had the moſt tender regard, to be guilty of the impertinence ſhe accuſed him of.

Harriot did not ſtay to hear more: offended in the higheſt degree at [71] the manner in which he mentioned Sophia, ſhe darted an angry look at him, and flung herſelf into her chair.

It muſt be confeſſed that Sir Charles diſcovered upon this occa⯑ſion a great ſhare of that eaſy con⯑fidence which people are apt to de⯑rive from ſplendid fortunes and un⯑diſputed rank; but as he wanted neither good ſenſe, generoſity, nor even delicacy, he would have found it difficult to own to a lady whom he had been uſed to addreſs in the ſtyle of a lover, that his heart had received a new impreſſion, if the contemptible character of Harriot had not authorized his deſertion of her. Pride, ignorance, folly, and affectation, ſink a woman ſo low in the eyes of men, that they eaſily diſpenſe with themſelves from a ſtrict obſervance of thoſe delicate attentions, and reſpectful regards, [72] which the ſex in general claim by the laws of politeneſs, but which ſenſe and diſcernment never pay to the trifling part of it.

Sir Charles was likewiſe glad of an opportunity to ſhew Miſs Darnley, that he did not think the little gal⯑lantry which had paſſed between them, entitled her to make him any reproaches; or to conſider the paſſion he profeſſed for her ſiſter as an infidelity to her; and now find⯑ing himſelf more at eaſe from the frank acknowledgement he had made, he ſent up his name, and was received by Mrs. Darnley with all the officious civility ſhe was uſed to ſhew him.

Sophia was in the room, and roſe up at his entrance in a ſweet con⯑fuſion, which ſhe endeavoured to conceal, by appearing extremely buſy at a piece of needle-work.

Sir Charles, after ſome trifling [73] converſation with her mother, ap⯑proached her, and complimented her with an eaſy air upon her being ſo uſefully employed, when moſt other young ladies were abroad in ſearch of amuſement.

Sophia, who was now a little re⯑covered, anſwered him with that wit and vivacity which was ſo na⯑tural to her; but looking up at the ſame time, ſhe ſaw his eyes fixed upon her with a look ſo tender and paſſionate, as threw her back into all her former confuſion, which en⯑creaſed every moment by the con⯑ſciouſneſs that it was plain to his obſervation.

The young baronet, though he was charmed with her amiable modeſty, yet endeavoured to relieve the concern he ſaw her under, by talking of indifferent matters, till Mrs. Darnley ſeeing them engaged in diſcourſe, prudently withdrew, [74] when he inſtantly addreſſed her in language more tender and parti⯑cular.

Sophia, ſhocked at her mother's indiſcretion, and at his taking ad⯑vantage of it ſo abruptly, let all the weight of her reſentment fall on him; and the poor lover was ſo awed by her frowns, and the ſar⯑caſtic raillery which ſhe mingled with expreſſions that ſhewed the moſt invincible indifference, that not daring to continue a diſcourſe which offended her, and in too great concern to introduce another ſubject, he ſtood fixed in ſilence for ſeveral minutes, leaning on the back of her chair, while ſhe plied her needle with the moſt earneſt atten⯑tion, and felt her confuſion decreaſe in proportion as his became more apparent.

At length he walked ſlowly to the other end of the room, and [75] taking up a new book which he had ſent her a few days before, he aſked her opinion of it in a faulter⯑ing accent; and was extremely mortified to find ſhe was ſo much at eaſe, as to anſwer him with all the readineſs of wit and clearneſs of judgment imaginable.

Another pauſe of ſilence enſued, during which Sophia heard him ſigh ſoftly ſeveral times, while he turned over the leaves of the book with ſuch rapidity as ſhewed he ſcarce read a ſingle line in any page of it.

He was thus employed when Mrs. Darnley returned, who ſtood ſtaring firſt at one, then at the other, ſtrangely perplexed at their looks and ſilence, and appre⯑henſive that all was not right. Sophia now took an opportunity to retire, and met an angry glance [76] from her mother as ſhe paſſed by her.

Her departure rouſed Sir Charles out of his revery, he looked after her, and then turning to Mrs. Darnley, overcame his diſcontent ſo far as to be able to entertain her a quarter of an hour with his uſual politeneſs; and finding So⯑phia did not appear again he took his leave.

As ſoon as he was gone Mrs. Darnley called her daughter, and chid her ſeverely for her rudeneſs in leaving the baronet.

Sophia defended herſelf as well as ſhe could, without owning the true cauſe of her diſguſt, which was her mother's ſo offi⯑ciouſly quitting the room; but Mrs. Darnley was ſo ill ſatisfied with her behaviour, that ſhe complained of it to her friend [77] Mr. Herbert, who came in ſoon afterwards, telling him that So⯑phia's pride and ill temper would be the ruin of her fortune.

The good man having heard the ſtory but one way, thought Sophia a little to blame, till hav⯑ing an opportunity to diſcourſe with her freely, he found the fault ſhe had been charged with was no more than an exceſs of de⯑licacy, which was very pardon⯑able in her ſituation: he warned her, however, not to admit too readily apprehenſions injurious to herſelf, which was in ſome de⯑gree debaſing the dignity of her ſex and character; but to make the baronet comprehend that eſ⯑teeming him as a man of honour, ſhe conſidered his profeſſions of regard to her as a claim upon her gratitude; and that, in con⯑ſequence [78] ſhe ſhould without any reluctance receive the commands of her mother, and the advice of her friends in his favour.

CHAP. VI. Sophia entertains Hopes, and becomes more unhappy.

POOR Sophia found herſelf but too well diſpoſed to think fa⯑vourably of Sir Charles; her ten⯑derneſs had ſuffered greatly by the force ſhe had put upon herſelf to behave to him in ſo diſobliging a manner, and the uneaſineſs ſhe ſaw him under, his ſilence, and con⯑fuſion, and the ſighs that eſcaped him, apparently without deſign, had affected her ſenſibly, and ſeveral days paſſing away without his ap⯑pearing again, ſhe concluded he was irrecoverably prejudiced againſt her; the uneaſineſs this thought gave her, firſt hinted to herſelf the im⯑preſſion he had already made on her heart.

[80]Sir Charles indeed has been ſo much piqued by her behaviour as to form the reſolution of ſeeing her no more; but when he ſuppoſed himſelf moſt capable of perſiſting in this reſolution, he was neareſt breaking through it, and ſuddenly yielding to the impulſe of his ten⯑derneſs, he flew to her again more paſſionate than ever; this little ab⯑ſence having only ſerved to ſhew him how neceſſary ſhe was to his happineſs. When Sophia ſaw him enter the room, the agitations of her mind might be eaſily read in her artleſs countenance; a ſentiment of joy for his return gave new fire to her eyes, and vivacity to her whole perſon; while a conſciouſ⯑neſs of the effect his preſence pro⯑duced, and a painful doubt of his ſincerity, and the rectitude of his intentions, alternately dyed her cheeks with bluſhes and paleneſs.

[81]The young baronet approached her trembling; but the unexpected ſoftneſs with which ſhe received him, increaſing at once his paſſion and his hopes, he poured out his whole ſoul in the tendereſt and moſt ardent profeſſions of love, eſteem, and admiration of her.

Sophia liſtened to him with a complaiſant attention; and having had ſufficient time, while he was ſpeaking, to compoſe and recollect herſelf, ſhe told him in a modeſt but firm accent, that ſhe was obliged to him for the favourable opinion he entertained of her; but that ſhe did not think herſelf at liberty to hear, much leſs to anſwer to ſuch diſcourſe as he had thought proper to addreſs to her, till ſhe had the ſanction of her mother's conſent, and Mr. Herbert's appro⯑bation, whoſe truly parental regard [82] for her, made her look upon him as another father, who ſupplied the place of him ſhe had loſt.

Sir Charles, more charmed with her than ever, was ready in his preſent flow of tender ſentiments for her, to offer her his hand with an unreſervedneſs that would have ſatisfied all her delicate ſcruples; but carried away by the force of habit, an inſurmountable averſion to marriage, and the falſe but ſtrongly impreſſed notion of refine⯑ments in an union of hearts, where love was the only tye, he could not reſolve to give her a proof of his affection, which in his opinion was the likelieſt way to deſtroy all the ardor of it; but careful not to alarm her, and apprehending no great ſeverity of morals from the gay intereſted mother, he politely thanked her for the liberty ſhe gave [83] him to make his paſſion known to Mrs. Darnley, and to ſolicit her conſent to his happineſs.

Sophia obſerved with ſome con⯑cern, that he affected to take no notice of Mr. Herbert upon this occaſion; but ſhe would not allow herſelf to dwell long upon a thought ſo capable of raiſing doubts inju⯑rious to his honour; and ſatisfied with the frankneſs of his proceed⯑ing thus far, ſhe ſuffered no marks of diſcontent or apprehenſion to appear in her countenance and be⯑haviour.

Sir Charles did not ſail to make ſuch a general declaration of his ſentiments to Mrs. Darnley as he thought ſufficient to ſatisfy Sophia, without obliging himſelf to be more explicite; and in the mean time, having acquired a thorough know⯑ledge of Mrs. Darnley's character, he ſought to engage her in his in⯑tereſt [84] by a boundleſs liberality, and by gratifying all thoſe paſſions which make corruption eaſy. She loved diſſipation; and all the pleaſures and amuſements that inventive luxury had found out to vary the ſhort ſcene of life were at her com⯑mand; ſhe had a high taſte for the pleaſures of the table, and therefore the moſt expenſive wines, and choiceſt delicacies that earth, ſea, and air could afford, were conſtant⯑ly ſupplied by him in the greateſt profuſion. No day ever paſſed without her receiving ſome conſi⯑derable preſent, the value of which was inhanced by the delicacy with which it was made.

The innocent Sophia conſtrued all this munificence into proofs of the ſincerity of his affection for her; for the young baronet, whe⯑ther awed by the dignity of her virtue, or that he judged it neceſ⯑ſary [85] to ſecure the ſucceſs of his de⯑ſigns, mingled with the ardor of his profeſſions a behaviour ſo re⯑ſpectful and delicate, as removed all her apprehenſions, and left her whole ſoul free to all the tender impreſſions a lively gratitude could make on it.

Mr. Herbert, however, eaſily penetrated into Sir Charles's views; he ſaw with pain the progreſs he made every day in the affection of Sophia; but, by the ſpeciouſneſs of his conduct, he had eſtabliſhed himſelf ſo firmly in her good opi⯑nion, that he judged any attempt to alarm her fears, while there ſeemed ſo little foundation for them, would miſs its effect; and not doubting but ere it was long her own obſervation would furniſh her with ſome cauſe for apprehen⯑ſion, he contented himſelf for the preſent with keeping a vigilant eye [86] upon the conduct of Sir Charles and Mrs. Darnley, and with being ready to aſſiſt Sophia in her per⯑plexities, whenever ſhe had recourſe to him.

The change there was now in the ſituation of this amiable girl, afforded him many opportunities of admiring the excellence of her character: ſhe who formerly uſed to be treated with neglect and even harſhneſs by her mother, was now diſtinguiſhed with peculiar regard; her opinion always ſubmitted to with deference, her inclinations conſulted in all things, and a ſtu⯑dious endeavour to pleaſe her was to be ſeen in every word and action of Mrs. Darnley's, who af⯑fected to be as partially fond of her as ſhe had once been of her ſiſter.

Even the haughty inſolent Har⯑riot, keeping her rage and envy con⯑cealed [87] in her own breaſt, conde⯑ſcended to wear the appearance of kindneſs to her, while ſhe ſhared with her mother in all thoſe grati⯑fications which the laviſh genero⯑ſity of Sir Charles procured them, and which Sophia, ſtill continuing her uſual ſimplicity of life, could never be perſuaded to partake of. Yet all this produced no altera⯑tion in Sophia; the ſame modeſty and humility, the ſame ſweetneſs of temper, and attention to oblige, diſtinguiſhed her now as in her days of oppreſſion.

Mr. Herbert contemplated her with admiration and delight, and often with aſtoniſhment reflected upon the infatuation of Sir Charles, who could allow himſelf to be ſo far governed by faſhionable preju⯑dices, and a libertine turn of mind, as to balance one moment whether he ſhould give himſelf a lawful [88] claim to the affections of ſuch a woman.

Affairs continued in this ſtate during three months, when the good old man, who watched over his young favourite with all the pious ſolicitude of her guardian angel, perceived that ſhe was grown more melancholy and reſerved than uſual; he often heard her ſigh, and fancied ſhe had been weeping, and her fine eyes would appear ſome⯑times ſuffuſed with tears, even when ſhe endeavoured to appear moſt chearful.

He imagined that ſhe had ſome⯑thing upon her mind which ſhe wiſhed to diſcloſe to him; her looks ſeemed to intimate as much, and ſhe frequently ſought opportunities of being alone with him, and en⯑gaged him to paſs thoſe evenings with her, when her mother and ſiſter were at any of the public en⯑tertainments. [89] Yet all thoſe times, though her heart ſeemed labouring with ſome ſecret uneaſineſs which ſhe would fain impart to him, ſhe had not reſolution enough to enter into any explanation.

Mr. Herbert, who could have wiſhed ſhe had been more commu⯑nicative, reſolved at length to ſpare her any farther ſtruggles with her⯑ſelf; and one day when he was alone with her, taking occaſion to obſerve that ſhe was not ſo chearful as uſual, he aſked her tenderly if any thing had happened to give her uneaſineſs; "Speak freely my child," ſaid he to her, ‘and think you are ſpeaking to a father.’

Sophia made no other anſwer at firſt than by burſting into tears, which ſeeming to relieve her a little, ſhe raiſed her head, and looking upon the good man, who beheld her with a fixed attention, [90] "May I hope, ſir," ſaid ſhe, ‘that you are ſtill diſpoſed to fulfil the kind promiſe you once made me —Oh take me from hence,’ pur⯑ſued ſhe, relapſing into a new paſſion of tears, ‘place me in the ſituation to which my humble lot has called me; ſave me from the weakneſs of my own heart—I now ſee plainly the deluſion into which I have fallen; but, alas! my mother does not ſee it— every thing here conſpires againſt my peace.’

CHAP. VII. Sophia takes a very extraordinary re⯑ſolution. Mr. Herbert encourages her in it.

SOPHIA, as if afraid ſhe had ſaid too much, ſtopped abrupt⯑ly, and, fixing her eyes on the ground, continued ſilent, and loſt in thought.

Mr. Herbert, who had well con⯑ſidered the purport of her words, paſſed over what he thought would give her too much pain to be ex⯑plicit upon, and anſwered in great concern, ‘Then my fears are true! Sir Charles is not diſpoſed to act like a man of honour.’

A ſudden bluſh glowed in the cheeks of Sophia at the mention of Sir Charles's name; but it was not a bluſh of ſoftneſs and confuſion. [92] Anger and diſdain took the place of that ſweet complacency, which was the uſual expreſſion of her counte⯑nance, and with a voice ſomewhat raiſed, ſhe replied eagerly,

‘Sir Charles I believe has de⯑ceived me; but him I can de⯑ſpiſe—Yet do not imagine, Sir, that he has dared to inſult me by any unworthy propoſals: if he has any unjuſtifiable views upon me, he has not had preſumption enough to make me acquainted with them, otherwiſe than by neglecting to convince me that they are honourable; but he practiſes upon the eaſy credulity of my mother. He lays ſnares for her gratitude by an intereſted generoſity, as I now too plainly perceive; and he has the art to make her ſo much his friend, that ſhe will not liſten to any [93] thing I ſay, which implies the leaſt doubt of his honour.’

Mr. Herbert ſighed, and caſt down his eyes. Sophia continued in great emotion: ‘It is impoſſible for me, Sir, to make you comprehend all the difficulties of my ſituation. A man who takes every form to enſnare my affections, but none to convince my judgment, impor⯑tunes me continually with decla⯑rations of tenderneſs, and com⯑plaints of my coldneſs and indif⯑ference: what can I do? what ought I to anſwer to ſuch diſ⯑courſe? In this perplexity, why will not my mother come to my aſſiſtance? her years, her autho⯑rity as a parent, give her a right to require ſuch an explanation from Sir Charles as may free me from doubts, which although reaſon ſuggeſts, delicacy permits [94] me not to make appear; but ſuch is my misfortune, that I cannot perſuade my mother there is the leaſt foundation for my fears. She is obſtinate in her good opinion of Sir Charles; and I am reduced to the ſad neceſſity of either acting in open contra⯑diction to her ſentiments and commands, or of continuing in a ſtate of humiliating ſuſpence, to which my character muſt at laſt fall a ſacrifice.’

"That, my dear child," inter⯑rupted Mr. Herbert, ‘is a point which ought to be conſidered. I would not mention it to you firſt; but ſince your own good ſenſe has led the way to it, I will frankly own that I am afraid, innocent and good as you are, the cenſures of the world will not ſpare you, if you continue to receive Sir Charles's viſits, doubt⯑ful [95] as his intentions now appear to every one: I know Mrs. Darnley judges of the ſincerity of his profeſſions to you, by the generoſity he has ſhewn in the preſents he has heaped upon her: —but, my dear child, that ge⯑neroſity was always ſuſpected by me.’

"I confeſs," ſaid Sophia, bluſh⯑ing, ‘I once thought favourably of him, for the attention he ſhew⯑ed to make my mother's life eaſy; but if his liberality to her be in⯑deed, as you ſeem to think, a ſnare, what opinion ought I to form of his motives for a late offer he has made her, and which at firſt dazzled me, ſo noble and ſo diſintereſted did it appear!’

"I know no offer but one," interrupted Mr. Herbert haſtily, ‘which you ought even to have liſtened to.’

[96] ‘Then the ſecret admonitions of my heart were right!’ cried Sophia with an accent that at once expreſſed exultation and grief.

‘But what was this offer, child,’ ſaid Mr. Herbert? ‘I am impatient to know it.’

‘I will tell you the whole affair as it happened,’ reſumed Sophia; ‘but you muſt not be ſurpriſed, that my mother was pleaſed with Sir Charles's offer. He has been her benefactor, and has a claim to her regard: it would be ſtrange if ſhe had not a good opinion of him. You know what that celebrated divine ſays, whoſe writings you have made me acquainted with: Charity it⯑ſelf commands us where we know no ill, to think well of all; but friendſhip, that goes always a pitch higher, gives a man a peculiar right and claim to the good opi⯑nion [97] of his friend. My mother may be miſtaken in the judg⯑ment ſhe has formed of Sir Charles; but it is her friendſhip for him, a friendſhip founded upon gratitude for the good offi⯑ces he has done her, that has given riſe to this miſtake.’

Sophia, in her eagerneſs to juſtify her mother, forgot that ſhe had raiſed Mr. Herbert's curioſity, and left it unſatisfied; and the good old man, charmed with the filial ten⯑derneſs ſhe ſhewed upon this occa⯑ſion, liſtened to her with compla⯑cency, though not with conviction. At length ſhe ſuddenly recollected herſelf, and entered upon her ſtory; but a certain heſitation in her ſpeech, accompanied with a baſhful air that made her withdraw her eyes from him, to fix them upon the ground, intimated plainly enough her own ſentiments of the [98] affair ſhe was going to acquaint him with.

"You know, Sir," ſaid ſhe, ‘Sir Charles has had a fit of ill⯑neſs lately, which alarmed all his friends. My mother was parti⯑cularly attentive to him upon this occaſion, and I believe he was ſenſibly affected with her kind concern for him. When he recovered, he begged my mo⯑ther, my ſiſter, and myſelf, would accompany him in a little excurſion to Hampſtead to take the air. We dined there, and returning home early in the evening, as we paſſed through Brook-ſtreet, he ordered the coach to ſtop at the door of a very genteel houſe, which ap⯑peared to be newly painted and fitted up. Sir Charles deſired us to go in with him and look at it, and give him our opinion of the [99] furniture. Nothing could be more elegant and genteel, and we told him ſo; at which he ap⯑peared extremely pleaſed, for all had been done, he ſaid, accord⯑ing to his directions.’

‘He came home with us, and drank tea; after which he had a private converſation with my mother, which laſted about a quarter of an hour; and when they returned to the room where they had left my ſiſter and I, Sir Charles appeared to me to have an unuſual thought⯑fulneſs in his countenance, and my mother looked as if ſhe had been weeping; yet there was at the ſame time, an expreſſion of ſatisfaction in her face.’

‘He went away immediately, when my mother, eager to give vent to the emotions which filled [100] her heart, exclaimed, Oh, So⯑phia, how much are you obliged to the generous affection of that man!’

"You may imagine, Sir," pur⯑ſued Sophia, in a ſweet confuſion, ‘that I was greatly affected with theſe words. I begged my mo⯑ther to explain herſelf. Sir Charles,’ ſaid ſhe, ‘has made you a preſent of that houſe which we went to view this af⯑ternoon; and here,’ added ſhe, giving me a paper, ‘is a deed by which he has ſettled three hun⯑dred pounds a year upon you.’

‘I was ſilent, ſo was my ſiſter, who looked at me as if impatient to know my thoughts of this extraordinary generoſity. My thoughts indeed were ſo perplex⯑ed, my notions of this manner of acting ſo confuſed and uncer⯑tain, that I knew not what to [101] ſay. My mother told us Sir Charles had declared to her, that his late illneſs had given him oc⯑caſion for many uneaſy reflections upon my account; that he ſhud⯑dered with horror when he con⯑ſidered the unhappy ſtate of my fortune, and to what difficulties I ſhould have been expoſed if he had died; and that, for the ſa⯑tisfaction of his own mind, he had made that ſettlement upon me, that whatever happened I might be out of the reach of ne⯑ceſſity.’

"I am afraid, Sir," purſued So⯑phia with a little confuſion in her countenance, ‘that you will con⯑demn me when I tell you I was ſo ſtruck at firſt with the ſeem⯑ing candor and tenderneſs of Sir Charles's motives for this act of generoſity, that none but the moſt [102] grateful ſentiments roſe in my mind.’

"No, my dear," replied Mr. Herbert, ‘I do not condemn you: this ſnare was artfully laid; but when was it that your heart, or rather your reaſon, gave you thoſe ſecret admonitions you ſpoke of?’

"Immediately," ſaid Sophia: ‘a moment's reflection upon the conduct of Sir Charles ſerved to ſhew me that ſome latent deſign lay concealed under this ſpecious offer; but I am obliged to my ſiſter for giving me a more diſtinct notion of it than my own confuſed ideas could furniſh me with.’

‘Then you deſired to know her opinion,’ ſaid Mr. Herbert.

"Certainly," reſumed Sophia, ‘this converſation paſſed in her [103] preſence, and as my elder ſiſter ſhe had a right to be con⯑ſulted.’

"Pray what did ſhe ſay?" aſked Mr. Herbert impatiently.

"You know, Sir," ſaid Sophia, with a gentle ſmile, ‘my ſiſter takes every opportunity to rally me about my pretenſions to wit: ſhe told me it was great conde⯑ſcenſion in me, who thought my⯑ſelf wiſer than all the world be⯑ſides, to aſk her advice upon this occaſion; and that ſhe would not expoſe herſelf to my con⯑tempt, by declaring her opinion, any farther than that ſhe ſuppoſed Sir Charles did not conſider this as a marriage-ſettlement.’

"Theſe laſt words," purſued So⯑phia, whoſe face was now covered with a deeper bluſh, ‘let in ſo much light upon my mind, that I was aſhamed and angry with myſelf [104] for having doubted a moment of Sir Charles's inſincerity. I thank⯑ed my ſiſter, and told her ſhe ſhould ſee that I would profit by the hint ſhe had given me.’

"I wiſh," interrupted Mr. Her⯑bert, ‘that ſhe may profit as much by you: but people of good un⯑derſtanding learn more from the ignorant than the ignorant do from them, becauſe the wiſe avoid the follies of fools, but fools will not follow the example of the wiſe: but what did Mrs. Darnley ſay to this?’

‘I never ſaw her ſo angry with my ſiſter before,’ replied Sophia: ‘ſhe ſaid ſeveral ſevere things to her, which made her leave the room in great emotion; and when we were alone, I endeavoured to con⯑vince my mother that it was not fit I ſhould make myſelf a de⯑pendant upon Sir Charles, by ac⯑cepting [105] ſuch conſiderable pre⯑ſents: ſhe was, however, of a different opinion, becauſe Sir Charles's behaviour had been al⯑ways reſpectful in the higheſt de⯑gree to me, and becauſe the man⯑ner in which he made this offer, left no room to ſuſpect that he had any other deſign in it but to ſecure a proviſion for me, in caſe any thing ſhould happen to him.’

‘Your mother impoſes upon her⯑ſelf,’ replied Mr. Herbert; ‘but I hope, my dear child, you think more juſtly.’

‘You may judge of my ſenti⯑ments, Sir,’ anſwered Sophia, ‘by the reſolution I have taken: I wiſhed to conſult you; but as I had no opportunity for it, I ſatis⯑fied myſelf with doing what I thought you would approve. My mother, preſt by my argu⯑ments, [106] told me in a peeviſh way that I might act as I thought proper: upon which I retired, and, ſatisfied with this permiſ⯑ſion, I encloſed the ſettlement in a cover directed to Sir Charles. I had juſt ſealed it, and was going to ſend it away, when my mother came into my room: I perceived ſhe was deſirous to renew the converſation about Sir Charles; but I carefully avoided it, for fear ſhe ſhould re⯑tract the permiſſion ſhe had given me to act as I pleaſed upon this occaſion. My reſerve piqued her ſo much, that ſhe forbore to enter upon the ſubject again; but as I had no opportunity of ſending any letter that night without her knowledge, I was obliged to go to bed much richer than I deſired to be; and the next morning, when we were at [107] breakfaſt, a letter was brought me from Sir Charles, dated four o'clock, in which he informed me that he was juſt ſetting out in a poſt-chaiſe for Bath. His uncle, who lies there at the point of death, has it ſeems earneſtly de⯑ſired to ſee him, and the meſſen⯑ger told him he had not a minute to loſe.’

"I am ſorry," interrupted Mr. Herbert, ‘that he did not get your letter before he went.’

Sophia then taking it out of her pocket, gave it to him, and begged he would contrive ſome way to have it ſafely delivered to Sir Charles; ‘and now, added ſhe, my heart is eaſy on that ſide, and I have no⯑thing to do but to arm myſelf with fortitude to bear the ten⯑der reproaches of a mother, whoſe anxiety for my intereſt makes her ſee this affair in a very [108] different light from that in which you and I behold it.’

Mr. Herbert put the letter care⯑fully into his pocket-book, and pro⯑miſed her it ſhould be conveyed to Sir Charles; then taking her hand, which he preſſed affectionately, ‘You have another ſacrifice yet to make, my dear good child,’ ſaid he, ‘and I hope it will not coſt you much to make it. You muſt reſolve to ſee Sir Charles no more: it is not fit you ſhould receive his viſits, ſince you ſuſpect his de⯑ſigns are not honourable, and you have but too much cauſe for ſuſpicion. It is not enough to be virtuous: we muſt appear ſo likewiſe; we owe the world a good example, the world, which oftener rewards the appearances of merit, than merit itſelf. It will be impoſſible for you to avoid ſeeing Sir Charles ſome⯑times, [109] if you continue with your mother: you have no authority to forbid his viſits here; and whether you ſhare them or not, they will be all placed to your account. Are you willing, Miſs Sophia, to go into the country, and I will board you in the fa⯑mily of a worthy clergyman, who is my friend? His wife and daughters will be agreeable com⯑panions for you; you will find books enough in his ſtudy to em⯑ploy thoſe hours which you de⯑vote to reading, and his conver⯑ſation will be always a ſource of inſtruction and delight.’

Sophia, with tears in her eyes, and a look ſo expreſſive that it con⯑veyed a ſtronger idea of the grateful ſentiments which filled her heart, than any words could do, thanked the good old man for his generous offer, and told him ſhe was ready to [110] leave London whenever he pleaſed: but unwilling to be an incumbrance upon his little fortune, ſhe intreated him to be diligent in his enquiries for a place for her, that ſhe might early inure herſelf to the humble condition which Providence thought fit to allot for her.

Mr. Herbert, entering into her delicate ſcruples, promiſed to pro⯑cure her a proper eſtabliſhment; and it was agreed between them that he ſhould acquaint her mother the next day with the reſolution the had taken, and endeavour to pro⯑cure her conſent to it.

CHAP. VIII. Mr. Herbert and Sophia carry their Point with great Difficulty.

MR. Herbert well knew all the difficulties of this taſk, and prepared himſelf to ſuſtain the ſtorm which he expected would fall upon him. He viſited Mrs. Darn⯑ley in the morning, and finding her alone, entered at once into the affair, by telling her that he had performed the commiſſion Miſs Sophia had given him; that a friend of his who was going to Bath would take care to deliver her letter to her unworthy lover, who, added he, will be convinced, by her re⯑turning his ſettlement, that ſhe has a juſt notion of his baſe deſigns, and deſpiſes him as well for his falſhood and preſumption, as for [112] the mean opinion he has entertained of her.

The old gentleman, who was perfectly well acquainted with Mrs. Darnley's character, and had ſtu⯑died his part, would not give her time to recover from the aſtoniſh⯑ment his firſt words had thrown her into, which was ſtrongly im⯑preſſed upon her countenance, and which ſeemed to deprive her of the power of ſpeech; but added, with an air natural enough, ‘Your con⯑duct, Mrs. Darnley, deſerves the higheſt praiſes; indeed I know not which to admire moſt, your diſintereſtedneſs, prudence, and judgment; or Miſs Sophia's rea⯑dy obedience, and the noble ſa⯑crifice ſhe makes to her honour and reputation. You knew her virtue might be ſecurely depend⯑ed upon, and you permitted her to act as ſhe thought proper with [113] regard to the inſidious offer Sir Charles made her: thus, by trans⯑ferring all the merit of a refuſal to her, you reflect a double luſtre upon your own, and ſhe has fully anſwered your intentions by re⯑jecting that offer with the con⯑tempt it deſerved.’

While Mr. Herbert went on in this ſtrain, Mrs. Darnley inſenſibly forgot her reſentment; her features aſſumed all that complacency which gratified vanity and ſelf-applauſe could impreſs upon them: and al⯑though ſhe was conſcious her ſen⯑timents were very different from thoſe which Mr. Herbert attributed to her, yet, as ſhe had really ſpoke thoſe words to Sophia which had given her a pretence to act as ſhe had done, ſhe concluded his praiſes were ſincere, and enjoyed them as much as if ſhe had deſerved them.

[114]It was her buſineſs now, how⯑ever vexed at her daughter's folly, as ſhe conceived it, to ſeem highly ſatisfied with her conduct, ſince what ſhe had done could not be recalled; yet inwardly fretting at the loſs of ſo noble a preſent, all her diſſimulation could not hinder her from ſaying, that although ſhe approved of Sophia's refuſal, yet ſhe could not help thinking ſhe had been very precipitate, and that ſhe ought to have waited till Sir Charles returned; and not have ſent, but have given him back his ſettlement.

Mr. Herbert, without anſwering to that point, told her, that what now remained for her prudence to do was, to take away all founda⯑tion for ſlander, by peremptorily forbidding Sir Charles's future vi⯑ſits; (here Mrs. Darnley began to frown) ‘for ſince it is plain to us [115] all, madam,’ purſued he, with⯑out ſeeming to perceive her emo⯑tion, ‘that marriage is not his in⯑tention, by being allowed to continue his addreſſes, miſs So⯑phia's character will ſuffer great⯑ly in the opinion of the world; and the wiſdom and diſcretion by which you have hitherto been governed in this affair, will not ſecure you from very unfavour⯑able cenſures. To ſhew there⯑fore how much you are in earneſt to prevent them, I think it is abſolutely neceſſary that you ſhould ſend your daughter out of this man's way.’

Mrs. Darnley, who thought ſhe had an unanſwerable objection to make to this ſcheme, in⯑terrupted him eagerly, ‘You know my circumſtances, Mr. Herbert, you know I cannot af⯑ford to ſend my daughter from [116] me; how am I to diſpoſe of her, pray?’

‘Let not that care trouble you, madam,’ replied Mr. Herbert, ‘I will take all this expence upon myſelf: I love Miſs Sophia as well as if ſhe was my own child; and ſlender as my income is, I will be at the charge of her maintenance till fortune and her own merit place her in a better ſituation.’

Mr. Herbert then acquainted her with the name and character of the clergyman in whoſe family he in⯑tended to place Sophia: he added, that the village to which ſhe was going being at no great diſtance, ſhe might hear from her frequent⯑ly, and ſometimes viſit her, without much expence or inconvenience.

Mrs. Darnley having nothing that was reaſonable to oppoſe to theſe kind and generous offers, had [117] recourſe to rage and exclamation. She told Mr. Herbert that he had no right to interpoſe in the affairs of her family; that he ſhould not diſpoſe of her daughter as he pleaſ⯑ed; that ſhe would exert the au⯑thority of a parent, and no officious meddler ſhould rob her of her child.

Mr. Herbert now found it ne⯑ceſſary to change his method with this intereſted mother, ‘Take care, madam,’ ſaid he, with a ſevere look, ‘how far you carry your op⯑poſition in this caſe: the world has its eyes upon your conduct; do not give it reaſon to ſay that your daughter is more prudent and cautious than you are; nor force her to do that without your conſent which you ought to be the firſt to adviſe her to.’

"Without my conſent!" re⯑plied Mrs. Darnley, almoſt breath⯑leſs [118] with rage; ‘will ſhe go with⯑out my conſent, ſay you; have you alienated her affections from me ſo far? I will ſoon know that.’

Then riſing with a furious air, ſhe called Sophia, who came into the room, trembling, and in the utmoſt agitation. The melancho⯑ly that appeared in her counte⯑nance, the paleneſs and diſorder, the conſequences of a ſleepleſs night, which ſhe had paſſed in various and afflicting thoughts, made Mr. Herbert apprehenſive that her mother's obſtinacy would prove too hard for her gentle diſ⯑poſition; and that her heart, thus aſſaulted with the moſt powerful of all paſſions, love and filial ten⯑derneſs, would inſenſibly betray her into a conſent to ſtay.

Mrs. Darnley giving her a look of indignation, exclaimed with the [119] ſarcaſtic ſeverity with which ſhe uſed formerly to treat her; ‘So my wiſe, my dutiful daughter! you cannot bear, it ſeems, to live with your mother; you are reſolved to run away from me, are you?’

"Madam," replied Sophia, with a firmneſs that diſconcerted Mrs. Darnley, as much as it pleaſingly ſurpriſed Mr. Herbert, ‘it is not you I am running away from, as you unkindly ſay, I am going into the country to free myſelf from the purſuits of a man who has impoſed upon your goodneſs, and my credulity; one who I am convinced, ſeeks my diſho⯑nour, and whoſe enſnaring ad⯑dreſſes have already, I am afraid, given a wound to my reputa⯑tion, which nothing but the re⯑ſolution I have taken to avoid him can heal.’

[120]Poor Sophia, who had with diffi⯑culty prevailed over her own ſoft⯑neſs to ſpeak in this determined manner, could not bear to ſee the confuſion into which her anſwer had thrown her mother; but ſigh⯑ing deeply, ſhe retired towards the window, and wiped away the tears that fell from her charming eyes.

Mrs. Darnley, who obſerved her emotion, and well knew how to take advantage of that amiable weakneſs in her temper, which made any oppoſition, however juſt and neceſſary, painful to her, de⯑ſired Mr. Herbert to leave her alone with her daughter, adding that his preſence was a conſtraint upon them both.

Sophia, hearing this, and dread⯑ing leſt he ſhould leave her to ſuſ⯑tain the ſtorm alone, went towards her mother, and with the moſt [121] perſuaſive look and accent, begged her not to part in anger from Mr. Herbert.

"I cannot forgive Mr. Herbert," ſaid Mrs Darnley, ‘for ſuppoſing I am leſs concerned for your ho⯑nour than he is. I ſee no neceſſi⯑ty for your going into the coun⯑try; your reputation is ſafe while you are under my care; it is time enough to ſend you out of Sir Charles's way when we are convinced his deſigns are not honourable. Mr. Herbert, by filling your head with groundleſs apprehenſions, will be the ruin of your fortune.’

‘Sir Charles's diſſembled affec⯑tion for me,’ interrupted Sophia, ‘will be the ruin of my character. There is no way to convince the world that I am not the willing dupe of his artifices, but by fly⯑ing from him as far as I can: do [122] not, my dear mamma,’ purſued ſhe, burſting into tears, ‘oppoſe my going; my peace of mind, my reputation depend upon it.’

‘You ſhall go when I think proper,’ replied Mrs. Darnley; "and as for you, Sir," turning to Mr. Herbert, ‘I deſire you will not interpoſe any farther in this matter.’

"Indeed I muſt, madam," ſaid the good old man, encouraged by a look Sophia gave him; ‘I conſider myſelf as guardian to your daughter, and in that quality I pretend to ſome right to regulate her conduct on an occaſion which requires a guardian's care and authority.’

"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Mrs. Darnley, with a malignant ſneer, ‘what a jeſt! to call yourſelf guardian to a girl who has not a ſhilling to depend upon.’

[123] ‘I am the guardian of her ho⯑nour and reputation,’ ſaid Mr. Herbert: ‘theſe make up her for⯑tune: and with theſe ſhe is richer than if ſhe poſſeſſed thouſands without them.’

"And do you, Miſs," ſaid Mrs. Darnley to her daughter, with a ſcornful air, ‘do you allow this fooliſh claim? Are you this gen⯑tleman's ward, pray?’

"Come, madam," ſaid Mr. Her⯑bert, willing to ſpare Sophia the pain of anſwering her queſtion, ‘be perſuaded that I have the ten⯑derneſs of a parent, as well as guardian, for your daughter: it is abſolutely neceſſary ſhe ſhould ſee Sir Charles no more; and the moſt effectual method ſhe can take to ſhun him, and to preſerve her character, is to leave a place where ſhe will be continually expoſed to his importunity. I [124] hope ſhe will be able to procure your conſent to her going to⯑morrow. I ſhall be here in the morning with a poſt-chaiſe, and will conduct her myſelf to the houſe of my friend, whom I have already prepared by a letter to receive her.’

Mr. Herbert, without waiting for any anſwer, bowed and left the room. Sophia followed him to the door, and by a ſpeaking glance aſ⯑ſured him he might depend upon her perſeverance.

CHAP. IX. In which Sophia ſhews leſs of the He⯑roine than the Woman.

AS ſoon as Mr. Herbert went away, Harriot, who had been liſtening, and had heard all that paſt, entered the room. The vir⯑tue and ſtrength of mind her ſiſter ſhewed in the deſign ſhe had form⯑ed of flying from Sir Charles Stan⯑ley excited her envy; and ſhe would have joined with her mother in en⯑deavouring to prevail upon her to ſtay, to prevent the ſuperiority ſuch a conduct gave her, had not that envy found a more ſenſible gratifi⯑cation in the thought that Sophia would no longer receive the ado⯑rations of the young baronet; and that all her towering hopes would [126] be changed to diſappointment and grief.

The diſcontinuance of thoſe pre⯑ſents which Sir Charles ſo liberally beſtowed on them, evidently on Sophia's account, and which had hitherto enabled them to live in af⯑fluence, affected her but little; for vanity is a more powerful paſ⯑ſion than intereſt in the heart of a coquet; and the pleaſure of ſeeing her ſiſter mortified and deſerted by her lover, outweighed all other con⯑ſiderations: beſides, ſhe was not without hopes that when Sophia was out of the way, her own charms would regain all their former in⯑fluence over the heart of Sir Charles.

She came prepared, therefore, to ſupport her in her reſolution of go⯑ing into the country; but Mrs. Darnley, who did not enter into her views, and who had no other [127] attention but to ſecure to herſelf that eaſe and affluence ſhe at pre⯑ſent enjoyed, expected Harriot would uſe her utmoſt efforts to pre⯑vent her ſiſter from diſobliging a man whoſe liberality was the ſource of their happineſs.

She complained to her in a ten⯑der manner of Sophia's unkindneſs; ſhe exaggerated the ill conſequences that might be apprehended from the affront ſhe put on Sir Charles, by thus avowing the moſt injurious ſuſ⯑picions of him; and declared ſhe expected nothing leſs than to be reduced by the loſs of her pen⯑ſion to that ſtate of miſery from which he had formerly relieved her.

Sophia melted into tears at theſe words; but a moment's reflection convinced her, that her mo⯑ther's apprehenſions were altogether groundleſs: Sir Charles was not ca⯑pable [128] of ſo mean a revenge; and Sophia, on this occaſion, defended him with ſo much ardor, that Miſs Darnley could not help indulging her malice, by throwing out ſome ſevere ſarcaſms upon the violence of her affection for a man whom ſhe affected to deſpiſe.

Sophia bluſhed; but anſwered calmly, ‘Well, ſiſter, if I love Sir Charles Stanley, I have the more merit in leaving him.’

‘Oh, not a bit the more for that,’ replied Harriot; ‘for, as I read in one of your books juſt now, Virtue would not go ſo far, if pride did not bear her com⯑pany.’

‘You might alſo have read, ſiſ⯑ter,’ ſaid Sophia, ‘that no woman is envious of another's virtue who is conſcious of her own.’

This retort threw Harriot into ſo violent a rage, that Sophia, who [129] knew what exceſſes ſhe was ca⯑pable of, left the room, and retired to pack up her cloaths, that ſhe might be ready when Mr. Herbert called for her.

In this employment Mrs. Darn⯑ley gave her no interruption; for Harriot having quitted her mother in a huff, becauſe ſhe did not join with her againſt Sophia, ſhe was left at liberty to purſue her own reflections. After long doubt and perplexity in what manner to act, ſhe reſolved to conſent that Sophia ſhould depart; for ſhe ſaw plainly that it would not be in her power to prevent it, and ſhe was willing to derive ſome merit from the ne⯑ceſſity ſhe was under of complying. She conſidered that if Sir Charles really loved her daughter, her flight on ſuch motives would rather in⯑creaſe than leſſen his paſſion; and that all his reſentment for being de⯑prived [130] of her ſight would fall upon Mr. Herbert, who alone was in fault.

Mrs. Darnley, as has been be⯑fore obſerved, was not of a temper to anticipate misfortunes, or to give herſelf much uneaſineſs about evils in futurity: ſhe always hoped the beſt, not becauſe ſhe had any well-grounded reaſons for it, but becauſe it was much more pleaſing to hope than to fear.

Sophia, when ſhe ſaw her next, found her ſurpriſingly altered: ſhe not only no longer oppoſed her de⯑parture, but even ſeemed deſirous of it; and this ſhe thought a maſ⯑ter-piece of cunning which could not fail of gaining Mr. Herbert's good opinion; never once reflect⯑ing that her former oppoſition de⯑prived her of all the merit of a vo⯑luntary compliance.

This change in Mrs. Darnley left Sophia no more difficulties to [131] encounter but what ſhe found in her own heart. Induſtrious to de⯑ceive herſelf, ſhe had imputed all the uneaſy emotions there to the grief of leaving her mother contra⯑ry to her inclination: ſhe had now her free conſent to go, yet ſtill thoſe perturbations remained. She thanked her mother for her indul⯑gence: ſhe took her hand, and tenderly preſſed it to her lips, tears at the ſame time flowing faſt from her eyes.

Mrs. Darnley was cruel enough to ſhew that ſhe underſtood the cauſe of this ſudden paſſion. "What," ſaid ſhe, ‘to the poor bluſhing Sophia, after all the clut⯑ter you have made about leaving Sir Charles, does your heart fail you now you come to the trial?’

Sophia, abaſhed and ſilent, hid her glowing face with her hand⯑kerchief; [132] and having with ſome dif⯑ficulty repreſt another guſh of tears, aſſumed compoſure enough to tell her mother that ſhe hoped ſhe ſhould never want fortitude to do her duty.

"To be ſure," replied Mrs. Darnley, ‘with aſneer, one ſo wiſe as you can never miſtake your duty.’

Sophia however underſtood hers ſo well that ſhe did not offer to re⯑criminate upon this occaſion; for Mrs. Darnley was but a ſhallow po⯑litician, and was thrown ſo much off her guard by the vexation ſhe felt, that an affair on which ſhe built ſuch great hopes had taken ſo different a turn, that ſhe gave plain indications of her diſpleaſure, and that her conſent to her daughter's going was indeed extorted from her.

Sophia had many of theſe aſſaults to ſuſtain, as well from Harriot as [133] Mrs. Darnley, during the re⯑mainder of that day; but they were of uſe to her. Her pride was concerned to prevent giving a real cauſe for ſuch ſarcaſms as her ſiſter in particular threw out: oppoſition kept up her ſpirits, and preſerved her mind from yielding to that ten⯑der grief which the idea of parting for ever from Sir Charles excited.

CHAP. X. The Deſcription of two Rural Beauties.

WHEN Mr. Herbert came the next morning, Mrs. Darnley, who had no better part to play, had recourſe again to diſſi⯑mulation, and expreſſed great wil⯑lingneſs to ſend her daughter away; but the good man, who ſaw the feint in her overacted ſatisfaction, ſuffered her to imagine that ſhe had effectually impoſed upon him.

Sophia wept when ſhe took leave of her mother, and returned the cold ſalute her ſiſter gave her with an affectionate embrace. She ſigh⯑ed deeply as Mr. Herbert helped her into the poſt-chaiſe; and con⯑tinued penſive and ſilent for ſeveral minutes, not daring to raiſe her [135] eyes up to her kind conductor, leſt he ſhould read in them what paſſed in her heart.

Mr. Herbert, who gueſſed what ſhe felt on this occaſion, was ſenſi⯑bly affected with that ſoft melan⯑choly, ſo eaſy to be diſcovered in her countenance, notwithſtanding all her endeavours to conceal it. He wiſhed to comfort her, but the ſubject was too delicate to be men⯑tioned: kind and indulgent as he was, he began to think his admired Sophia carried her concern on this occaſion too far; ſo true that obſer⯑vations is, that the caſe of tried virtue is harder than that of untried: we require from it as debts continual exertions of its power, and if we are at any time diſappointed in our ex⯑pectations, we blame with reſent⯑ment as if we had been deceived.

Sophia's ſenſibility, however, was very excuſable; in flying from Sir [136] Charles ſhe had done all that the moſt rigid virtue could demand; for as yet ſhe had only ſuſpicions againſt him; and this man, whoſe generous gift ſhe had returned with ſilent ſcorn, whom ſhe had avoid⯑ed as an enemy, had hitherto be⯑haved to her with all the tender⯑neſs of a lover, and all the benevo⯑lence of a friend. It was under that amiable idea that he now pre⯑ſented himſelf to her imagination; her pride and her reſentment were appeaſed by the ſacrifice ſhe had made in her abrupt departure, and every unkind thought of him was changed to tender regret for his loſs.

Mr. Herbert, by not attempting to divert the courſe of her reflec⯑tions, ſoon drew her out of her revery: his ſilence and reſerve firſt intimated to her the impropriety of her behaviour. She immediately [137] aſſumed her uſual compoſure, and during the remainder of their little journey, ſhe appeared as chearful and ſerene as if nothing extraordi⯑nary had happened.

The good curate with whom ſhe was to lodge having rode out to meet his friend and his fair gueſt, joined them when they had come within three miles of his houſe. Mr. Herbert, who had deſcried him at a little diſtance, ſhewed him to Sophia: "There, my dear," ſaid he, ‘is a man who, with more pie⯑ty and learning than would ſerve to make ten biſhops, is oblig⯑ed to hire himſelf out at the rate of ſixty pounds a year, to do the duty of the pariſh church, the rector of which enjoys three lu⯑crative benefices, without pray⯑ing or preaching above five times in a twelvemonth.’

Mr. Lawſon, for that was the [138] curate's name, had now galloped up to the chaiſe, which Mr. Her⯑bert had ordered the poſt-boy to ſtop, and many kind ſalutations paſſed between the two friends.

Sophia was particularly pleaſed with the candor and benevolonce which appeared in the looks and behaviour of the good clergyman; who gazed on her attentively, and found the good opinion he had en⯑tertained of her from Mr. Her⯑bert's repreſentations fully confirm⯑ed. The bewitching ſweetneſs in her voice and eyes, the ſpirit that animated her looks, and the pecu⯑liar elegance of her perſon and ad⯑dreſs, produced their uſual effects, and filled Mr. Lawſon's heart with ſentiments of tenderneſs, eſteem, and reſpect for her.

Mrs. Lawſon and her two daughters received her with that true politeneſs which is founded on [139] good ſenſe and good nature. Both the young women were extremely agreeable in their perſons, and So⯑phia contemplated with admiration the neat ſimplicity of their dreſs, their artleſs beauty, and native ſweetneſs of manners. Health dyed their cheeks with bluſhes more beautiful than thoſe the fine lady borrows from paint; innocence and chearfulneſs lighted up ſmiles in their faces, as powerful as thoſe of the moſt finiſhed coquet; and good humour and a ſincere deſire of obliging, gave graces to their be⯑haviour which ceremony but poor⯑ly imitates.

Theſe were Sophia's obſervations to Mr. Herbert, who ſeized the firſt opportunity of ſpeaking to her apart, to aſk her opinion of her new companions. He was rejoiced to hear her expreſs great ſatisfaction in her new ſituation, and not doubting [140] but time and abſence, aſſiſted by her own good ſenſe and virtue, would baniſh Sir Charles Stan⯑ley entirely from her remembrance; he ſcrupled not to leave her at the end of three days, after hav⯑ing tenderly recommended her to the care of this little worthy family, every individual of which already loved her with extreme af⯑fection.

Sophia was indeed ſo much de⯑lighted with the new ſcene of life ſhe had entered upon, and her fancy was at firſt ſo ſtruck with the novelty of all the objects ſhe beheld, that the continual diſſipa⯑tion of her thoughts left no room for the idea of the baronet: but this deceitful calm laſted not long. She ſoon found by experi⯑ence, that the ſilence and ſolitude of the country were more proper to nouriſh love than to deſtroy it; [141] and that groves and meads, the nightingale's ſong, and the rivulet's murmur, were food for tender me⯑lancholy, and the ſoft reveries of imagination.

Mr. Lawſon's houſe was moſt ro⯑manticly ſituated on the borders of a ſpacious park; from whoſe opulent owner he rented a ſmall farm, which ſupplied his fami⯑ly with almoſt all the neceſſaries of life. Mrs. Lawſon his wife, brought him a very ſmall for⯑tune, but a great ſtock of virtue, good ſenſe, and prudence. She had ſeen enough of the world to poliſh her manners without cor⯑rupting her heart; and having lived moſt part of her time in the country, ſhe underſtood rural af⯑fairs perfectly well, and ſuperintend⯑ed all the buſineſs of their little farm. Their two daughters were at once the beſt houſe-wifes, and [142] the moſt accompliſhed young wo⯑men in that part of the country. Mr. Lawſon took upon himſelf the delightful taſk of improving their minds, and giving them a taſte for uſeful knowledge: and their mother, beſides inſtructing them in all the economical duties ſuit⯑able to their humble fortunes, form⯑ed them to thoſe decencies of manners and propriety of beha⯑viour, which ſhe had acquired by a genteel education, and the con⯑verſation of perſons of rank. In the affairs of the family, each of the young women had their par⯑ticular province aſſigned them. Dolly, the eldeſt, preſided in the dairy; and Fanny, ſo was the youngeſt called, aſſiſted in the ma⯑nagement of the houſe. Sophia ſoon entertained a friendſhip for them both; but a powerful incli⯑nation attached her particularly to [143] Dolly. There was in the coun⯑tenance of this young woman a cer⯑tain ſweetneſs and ſenſibility that pleaſed Sophia extremely; and though ſhe had all that chearful⯑neſs which youth, health, and in⯑nocence inſpire, yet the penſiveneſs that would ſometimes ſteal over her ſweet features, the gentle ſighs that would now and then eſcape her, excited a partial tender⯑neſs for her in the heart of Sophia.

She took pleaſure in aſſiſting her in her little employments. Dolly inſenſibly loſt that awe which the preſence of the fair Londoner firſt inſpired, and repaid her tenderneſs with that warmth of affection which only young and innocent minds are capable of feeling.

CHAP. XI. Sophia makes an intereſting Diſco⯑very.

SOPHIA, inſtructed by her own experience, ſoon diſcovered that her young friend was in love; but neither of them diſcloſed the ſecret of their hearts to each other. Dolly was with-held by baſhful timidity, Sophia by delicate reſerve. Fond as they were of each other's company, yet the want of this mutual confi⯑dence made them ſometime chuſe to be alone. Sophia having one evening ſtrayed in the wood, wholly abſorbed in melancholy thoughts, loſt her way, and was in ſome per⯑plexity how to recover the path that led to Mr. Lawſon's houſe; when looking anxiouſly around her, ſhe ſaw Dolly at a diſtance, ſitting un⯑der [145] a tree. Overjoyed to meet her ſo luckily, ſhe was running up to her, but ſtopped upon the appear⯑ance of a young man, who, ſeeing Dolly, flew towards her with the utmoſt eagerneſs, and with ſuch an expreſſion of joyful ſurprize in his countenance, as perſuaded her this meeting was accidental.

Sophia, not willing to interrupt their converſation, paſſed on ſoftly behind the trees, unobſerved by Dolly, who continued in the ſame penſive attitude; but being now nearer to her, ſhe perceived ſhe was weeping exceſſively.

Sophia, who was greatly affected at this fight, could not help accom⯑panying her tears with ſome of her own; and not daring to ſtir a ſtep farther, for fear of being ſeen by the youth, ſhe reſolved to take advantage of her ſituation, to know [146] the occaſion of Dolly's extraordi⯑nary affliction.

The poor girl was ſo wrapt in thought, that ſhe neither ſaw nor heard the approach of her lover, who called to her in the tendereſt accent imaginable, ‘My dear Dolly, is it you? Won't you look at me? Won't you ſpeak to me? What have I done to make you angry, my love? Don't go,’ (for upon hearing his voice ſhe ſtarted from her ſeat, and ſeemed deſirous to avoid him) ‘don't go, my dear Dolly,’ ſaid he, following her, (and ſhe went ſlowly enough) ‘don't drive me to deſpair.’

‘What would you have me do, Mr. William,’ ſaid ſhe, ſtopping and turning gently towards him; ‘you know my father has forbid me to ſpeak to you, and I would die rather than diſoblige him: [147] you may thank your proud rich aunt for all this. Pray let me go,’ purſued ſhe, making ſome faint efforts to withdraw her hand, which he had ſeized and held faſt in his, ‘you muſt forget me, Wil⯑liam, as I have reſolved to forget you,’ added ſhe ſighing, and turning away her head, leſt he ſhould ſee the tears that fell from her eyes.

Cruel as theſe words ſounded in the ears of the paſſionate William, yet he found ſomething in her voice and actions that comforted him; "No, my dear Dolly," ſaid he, endeavouring to look in her averted face, ‘I will not believe that you have reſolved to forget me; you can no more forget me, than I can you, and I ſhall love you as long as I live—I know you ſay this only to grieve me; you do not mean it.’

[148]"Yes, I do mean it," replied Dolly, in a peeviſh accent, vexed that he had ſeen her tears. ‘I know my duty, and you ſhall find that I can obey my father.’ While ſhe ſpoke this, ſhe ſtruggled ſo much in earneſt to free her hand from his, that fearing to offend her, he dropped it with a ſubmiſſive air.

Dolly having now no pretence for ſtaying any longer, bid him farewell in a faltering voice, and went on, though with a ſlow pace, towards her father's houſe. The youth con⯑tinued for a moment motionleſs as a ſtatue, with a countenance pale as death, and his eyes, which were ſuffuſed with tears, fixed on the parting virgin.

"What," cried he at laſt, in the moſt plaintive tone imaginable, ‘can you really leave me thus? go then, my dear unkind Dolly, I [149] will trouble you no more with my hateful preſence; I wiſh you happy, but if you hear that any ſtrange miſchief has befallen me, be aſſured you are the cauſe of it.’

He followed her as he ſpoke, and Dolly no longer able to continue her aſſumed rigour, ſtopped when he approached her, and burſt into tears. The lover felt all his hopes revive at this ſight, and taking her hand, which he kiſſed a thouſand times, he uttered the tendereſt vows of love and conſtancy; to which ſhe liſtened in ſilence, only now and then ſoftly ſighing; at length ſhe diſengaged her hand, and gently begged him to leave her, leſt he ſhould be ſeen by any of the family. The happy youth, once more con⯑vinced of her affection for him, obeyed without a murmur.

[150]Dolly, as ſoon as he had quitted her, ran haſtily towards home; but he, as if every ſtep was leading him to his grave, moved ſlowly on, of⯑ten looking back, and often ſtop⯑ping: ſo that Sophia, who was afraid ſhe would not be able to overtake her friend, was obliged to hazard being ſeen by him, and fol⯑lowed Dolly with all the ſpeed ſhe could. As ſoon as ſhe was near enough to be heard, ſhe called out to her to ſtay. Dolly ſtopt, but was in ſo much confuſion at the thought of having been ſeen by Miſs Darn⯑ley, with her lover, that ſhe had not courage to go and meet her. "Ah, Miſs Dolly," ſaid Sophia ſmiling, ‘I have made a diſcovery; but I do aſſure you it was as ac⯑cidental as your meeting with that handſome youth, who I find is your lover.’

[151]"Yes, indeed," replied Dolly, whoſe face was covered with bluſhes, ‘my meeting with that young man was not deſigned, at leaſt on my part: but ſurely you jeſt, Miſs Darnley, when you call him handſome: do you really think him handſome?’

"Upon my word I do," ſaid So⯑phia; ‘he is one of the prettieſt youths I ever ſaw; and if the profeſſions of men may be re⯑lied on,’ added ſhe, with a ſigh, ‘he certainly loves you; but, my dear Dolly, by what I could learn from your converſation, he has not your father's conſent to make his addreſſes to you; I was ſorry to hear that, Dolly, becauſe I perceive, my dear, that you like him.’

Dolly now held down her head, and bluſhed more than before, but continued ſilent. ‘Perhaps you [152] will think me impertinent,’ re⯑ſumed Sophia, ‘for ſpeaking ſo freely about your affairs; but I love you dearly, Miſs Dolly.’ — "And I," interrupted Dolly, ‘throwing one of her arms about Sophia's neck, and kiſſing her cheek, love you, Miſs Darnley, better a thouſand times than ever I loved any body, except my father and mother and my ſiſ⯑ter.’

"Well, well," ſaid Sophia, ‘I won't diſpute that point with you now; but if you love me ſo much as you ſay, my dear Dolly, why have you made a ſecret of this affair? friends do not uſe to be ſo reſerved with each other.’

"Perhaps," ſaid Dolly, ſmiling a little archly, ‘you have taught me to be reſerved by your ex⯑ample; but indeed,’ added ſhe, ‘with a graver look and accent, [153] I am not worthy to be your confidant; you are my ſuperior in every thing: It would be pre⯑ſumption in me to deſire to know your ſecrets.’

‘You ſhall know every thing that concerns me,’ interrupted Sophia, ‘which can be of uſe to you, and add weight to that ad⯑vice I ſhall take the liberty to give you upon this occaſion: I am far from being happy, my dear Dol⯑ly, and I bluſh to ſay it; it has been in the power of a deceitful man greatly to diſturb my peace.’

Sophia here wiped her charming eyes, and Dolly who wept ſympa⯑thetically for her, and for herſelf, exclaimed, ‘Is there a man in the world who could be falſe to you? alas! what have I to expect?’

"Come, my dear," ſaid Sophia, ‘leading her to the root of a large tree, let us ſit down here, we [154] ſhall not be called to ſupper yet, you have time enough to give me ſome account of this young man, whom I ſhould be glad to find worthy of you: tell me how your acquaintance began, and what are your father's reaſons for forbidding your correſpon⯑dence.’

CHAP. XII. The Beginning of a very ſimple Story.

DOLLY, though encouraged by the ſweet condeſcenſion of So⯑phia, who, to inſpire her with con⯑fidence, freely acknowledged the ſituation of her own heart, bluſhed ſo much, and was in ſuch apparent confuſion, that Sophia was con⯑cerned at having made her a requeſt which gave her ſo much pain to comply with.

At length the innocent girl, looking up to her with a baſhful air, ſaid, ‘I ſhould be aſhamed, dear miſs, to own my weakneſs to you, if I did not know that you are too generous to think the worſe of me for it: to be ſure I have a great value for Mr. [156] William; but I was not ſo fooliſh as to be taken with his hand⯑ſomeneſs only, tho' indeed he is very handſome, and I am de⯑lighted to find that you think him ſo; but Mr. William, as my father can tell you, madam, is a very fine ſcholar: he was edu⯑cated in a great ſchool at London, and there is not a young ſquire in all this country who has half his learning, or knows how to behave himſelf ſo genteely as he does, though his father is but a farmer: however, he is rich, and he has but one child beſides Mr. William, and that is a ſickly boy, and not likely to live; ſo that Mr. William, it is thought, will have all.’

"I ſhould imagine then," ſaid Sophia, ‘that this young man would not be a bad match for you?’

[157]"A bad match!" replied Dolly, ſighing: ‘no certainly; but his aunt looks higher for him: yet there was a time when ſhe was well enough pleaſed with his liking me.’

"What is his aunt," ſaid Sophia, ‘and how does it happen that ſhe has any authority over him?’

‘Why you muſt know, ma⯑dam,’ anſwered Dolly, ‘that his aunt is very rich; when ſhe was a young woman, a great lady took a fancy to her, and kept her as her companion a great many years, and when ſhe died, ſhe left her all her cloaths and jewels, and a prodigious deal of money: ſhe never would marry, for ſhe was croſſed in love they ſay in her youth, and that makes her ſo ill-natured and ſpiteful, I believe, to young people; but notwith⯑ſtanding that, I cannot help lov⯑ing [158] her, becauſe ſhe was always ſo fond of Mr. William: ſhe is his god-mother, and when he was about ten years old ſhe ſent for him to London, and declared ſhe would provide for him as her own; and indeed ſhe acted like a mother towards him: ſhe put him to ſchool, and maintained him like a gentleman; and when he grew up, ſhe would have made a gentleman of him; for ſhe had a great deſire that he ſhould be an officer.’

‘Mr. William at that time was very fond of being an officer too; but as he was very dutiful and obedient to his father, (indeed Miſs Sophia he is one of the beſt young men in the world,) he deſired leave to conſult him firſt; ſo about a year ago he came to viſit his father, and has never been at London ſince; and [159] he had not been long in the country before he changed his mind as to being an officer, and declared he would be a farmer like his father, and live a country life.’

"Ah Dolly," ſaid Sophia ſmil⯑ing, ‘I ſuſpect you were the cauſe of this change, my friend.’

"Why indeed," replied Dolly, ‘he has ſince told me ſo: but perhaps he flattered me when he ſaid it; for, ah my dear Miſs, I remember what you ſaid juſt now about the deceitfulneſs of men, and I tremble leſt Mr. William ſhould be like the reſt.’

"Well, my dear," interrupted Sophia, ‘go on with your ſtory; I am impatient to know when you ſaw each other firſt, and how your acquaintance began.’

"You know, madam," ſaid Dol⯑ly, ‘my father keeps us very re⯑tired: [160] I had no opportunity of ſeeing Mr. William but at church; we had heard that far⯑mer Gibbons had a fine ſon come from London, and the Sunday af⯑terwards when we were at church, my ſiſter, who is a giddy wild girl, as you know, kept ſtaring about, in hopes of ſeeing him. At laſt ſhe pulled me haſti⯑ly, and whiſpered, look, look, Dolly, there is farmer Gibbons juſt come in, and I am ſure he has got his London ſon with him, ſee what a handſome young man he is, and how genteely he is dreſt!’

‘Well, madam, I looked up, and to be ſure I met Mr. Wil⯑liam's eyes full upon me; I felt my face glow like fire; for as ſoon as I looked upon him, he made me a low bow. My ſiſter courtefied; but for my part, I [161] don't know whether I courteſied or not: I was never ſo confuſed in my life, and during the whole time we were at church, I ſcarce ever durſt raiſe my eyes; for I was ſure to find Mr. William looking into our pew.’

‘I ſuppoſe you was not diſpleaſ⯑ed with him,’ ſaid Sophia, ‘for taking ſo much notice of you?’

‘I do not know whether I was or not,’ replied Dolly; ‘but I know that I was in a ſtrange con⯑fuſion during all church-time; yet I obſerved that Mr. William did not go out when the reſt of the congregation did, but ſtaid behind, which made my ſiſter laugh, for he looked fooliſh enough ſtanding alone. But he ſtaid to have an opportunity of making us another bow; for it is my father's cuſtom, as ſoon as he has diſmiſſed the people, to [162] come into our pew and take us home with him. I never ſhall forget how reſpectfully Mr. William ſaluted my father as he paſſed him. I now made amends for my former neglect of him, and returned the bow he made me with a very low courteſy.’

‘Fanny and I talked of him all the way home: I took delight in hearing her praiſe him; and al⯑though I was never uſed to diſ⯑guiſe my thoughts before, yet I knew not how it was, but I was aſhamed to ſpeak ſo freely of him as ſhe did, and yet I am ſure I thought as well of him.’

"I dare ſay you did," ſaid So⯑phia, ſmiling; "but my dear," purſued ſhe in a graver accent, ‘this was a very ſudden impreſſion. Suppoſe this young man whoſe perſon captivated you ſo much, [163] had been wild and diſſolute, as many young men are; how would you have excuſed yourſelf for that early prejudice in his favour, which you took in ſo readily at your eyes, without conſulting your judgment in the leaſt?’

CHAP. XIII. Dolly continues her Story.

DOLLY, fixing her baſhful looks on the ground, remained ſilent for a moment; then ſighing, anſwered, ‘I am ſure if I had not believed Mr. William good and virtuous, I ſhould never have liked him, though he had been a hundred times handſomer than he is; but it was impoſſible to look on him and think him otherwiſe; and if you had ob⯑ſerved him well, Miſs Darnley, his countenance has ſo much ſweetneſs and candor in it, as my father once ſaid, that you could not have thought ill of him.’

"It is not always ſafe," ſaid So⯑phia, ſighing likewiſe, ‘to truſt to [165] appearances: men's actions as well as their looks often deceive us; and you muſt allow, my dear Dolly, that there is danger in theſe ſudden attachments; but when did you ſee this pretty youth again?’

"Not till the next Sunday," replied Dolly; ‘and though you ſhould chide me never ſo much, yet I muſt tell you that this ſeemed the longeſt week I ever knew in my life. I did not doubt but he would be at church again, and I longed impatiently for Sunday. At laſt Sunday came; we went with my father as uſual to church, and would you be⯑lieve it, Miſs Darnley, though I wiſhed ſo much to ſee Mr. Wil⯑liam, yet now I dreaded meeting him, and trembled ſo when I came into church, that I was obliged to take hold of Fanny [166] to keep me from falling. She ſoon diſcovered him, and pulled me in order to make me look up: he had placed himſelf in our way, ſo that we paſſed cloſe by him. He made us a very low bow, and my mother, who had not ſeen him before, ſmiled and looked extremely pleaſed with him; for to be ſure, Madam, ſhe could not help admiring him.’

‘Well, I was very uneaſy all the time we were in church; for Fanny whiſpered me that my ſweet-heart,’ for ſo ſhe called Mr. William, ‘minded nothing but me. This made me bluſh exceſ⯑ſively, and I was afraid my mo⯑ther would take notice of his ſtaring and my confuſion; ſo that (heaven forgive me) I was glad when the ſermon was ended. He made us his uſual compliment at our going out, but I did not [167] look up: however, I was impati⯑ent to be alone with Fanny, that I might talk of him, and in the evening we walked towards the Park. Juſt as we had placed ourſelves under a tree, we ſaw a fine dreſt gentleman, a viſiter of the Squire's as we ſuppoſed, coming up to us: upon which we roſe and walked homewards; but the gentleman followed us, and coming cloſe to me, ſtared impudently under my hat, and ſwearing a great oath, ſaid I was a pretty girl, and he would have a kiſs. Fanny ſeeing him take me by the arm, ſcreamed aloud; but I, pretending not to be frightened, though I trembled ſadly, civilly begged him to let me go. He did not regard what I ſaid, but was extremely rude: ſo that I now began to ſcream as loud as Fanny, ſtruggling all the [168] time to get from him, but in vain, and now who ſhould come to my aſſiſtance but Mr. Willi⯑am: I ſaw him flying acroſs a field, and my heart told me it was he, before he came near enough for me to know him.’

‘As ſoon as Fanny perceived him, ſhe ran to him, and begged him to help me; but he did not need intreaty; he flew like a bird to the place where I was, and left Fanny far behind. The rude gentleman bad him be gone, and threatened him ſeverely; for he had taken the hand I had at liberty, which I gladly gave him, and inſiſted upon his letting me go: and now, my dear Miſs Darnley, all my fears were for him, for the gentleman declared that if he did not go about his buſineſs, he would run him through the body, and actually [169] drew his ſword; I thought I ſhould have died at that terrible ſight; my ſiſter run towards home crying like one diſtracted; and as for me, though the man had let go my hand, and I might have run away, yet I could not bear to leave Mr. William to the mercy of that cruel wretch; and I did what at another time I ſhould have bluſhed to have done. I took his hand and pulled him with all my force away; but he, en⯑raged at being called puppy by the gentleman, who continued ſwearing, that he would do him a miſchief, if he did not leave the place, begged me to make the beſt of my way home; and turning furiouſly to him who was brandiſhing his ſword about, he knocked him down with one ſtroke of a cudgel which he fortunately had in his hand, [170] and ſnatching his ſword from him, he threw it among the buſhes.’

‘Upon my word (ſaid Sophia) your William's character riſes upon me every moment: this was a very gallant action, and I do not wonder at your liking him now.’

‘Ah, Miſs (cried Dolly) if you had ſeen how he looked when he came back to me, if you had heard the fine things he ſaid—Well, you may imagine I thanked him for the kindneſs he had done me, and he proteſt⯑ed he would with pleaſure loſe his life for my ſake. I think I could have liſtened to him for ever; but now my father ap⯑peared in ſight. My ſiſter had alarmed him greatly with her ac⯑count of what had happened, and he was coming haſtily to my aſ⯑ſiſtance, [171] followed by my mother and all the family. As ſoon as we perceived them coming we mended our pace; for we had walked very ſlowly hitherto: then it was that Mr. William, who had not ſpoke ſo plainly be⯑fore, told me how much he loved me, and begged I would give him leave to ſee me ſometimes. I replied, that depended upon my father, and this was prudent, was it not, my dear Miſs Darn⯑ley?’

"Indeed it was," anſwered So⯑phia, "but what ſaid your lover?"

"He ſighed, Madam," reſumed Dolly, ‘and ſaid he was afraid my father would not think him worthy of me: he owned he was no otherwiſe worthy of me than from the great affection he bore me, and then—But here I [172] fear you will think him too bold and perhaps blame me.’

"I hope not," ſaid Sophia.

"Why, Madam," continued Dolly, ‘he took my hand and kiſſed it a thouſand times; and tho' I did all I could to be ſure to pull it away, yet he would not part with it, till my father was ſo near that he was afraid he would obſerve him; and then he let it go, and begged me in a whiſper not to hate him. Bleſs me, what a ſtrange requeſt that was, Miſs Darnley! how could I hate one to whom I had been ſo greatly obliged! I was ready to burſt into tears at the very thought, and told him I was ſo far from hating him, that—’

‘Pray go on, my dear (ſaid So⯑phia) obſerving ſhe heſitated and was ſilent.’

[173]"I told him, Madam," reſumed ſhe, ‘that I would always regard him as long as I lived.—I did not ſay too much, did I?’

"I ſuppoſe," ſaid Sophia, ‘you gave him to underſtand that it was in gratitude for the ſervice he had done you.’

"To be ſure," ſaid Dolly, ‘I put it in that light. Well I am glad you approve of my behavi⯑our, Miſs Darnley; ſo, as I was telling you, my father came up to us, and thanked Mr. William for having reſcued his daughter; he then aſked him what he had done with the rude fellow? Mr. William told him he had given him a lucky ſtroke with his cud⯑gel, which made him meaſure his length on the ground; but,’ ‘ſaid he (and ſure that ſhewed exceſſive good nature) I hope I have not hurt him much:’

[174] ‘My father ſaid he would go and ſee; and then ſhaking Mr. William kindly by the hand, he called him a brave youth, and ſaid he hoped they ſhould be better acquainted—Oh! how glad was I to hear him ſay ſo: My mother too was vaſtly civil to him; and as for Fanny, I thought ſhe would have hugged him, ſhe was ſo pleaſed with him for his kindneſs to me. My mother inſiſted upon his ſtaying to drink tea with us, and as ſoon as my father came back, we all went in toge⯑ther.’

‘Pray what became of the poor vanquiſhed knight?’ ſaid Sophia, ſmiling.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," re⯑ſumed Dolly, ‘that my father ſaid he ſaw him creeping along as if he was ſorely bruiſed with [175] his fall, ſupporting himſelf with his ſword, which it ſeems he had found. We were all glad it was no worſe, and Mr. William having accepted my mother's in⯑vitation, he ſtaid with us till the evening was pretty far ad⯑vanced; and then my father ac⯑companied him part of his way home, and at parting, as he told us, deſired to ſee him often.’

‘He was not backward, you may be ſure, in complying with his requeſt: he came ſo often, that my father was ſurpriſed; and beſides, my ſiſter and I ſcarce ever went out to walk but we met him; ſo that one would have imagined he lived in the fields about our houſe. My mother at laſt ſuſpected the truth, and queſtioned me about him, and I told her all that he had ever ſaid to me; and not long after⯑wards [176] he took an opportunity to open his heart to my father, and aſked his permiſſion to make his addreſſes to me. With ſuch modeſty and good ſenſe he ſpoke, that my father was extremely pleaſed with him: but told him that he muſt conſult his friends, and know whether they approved of it, and then he would conſi⯑der of his propoſal. Mr. William, as he afterwards told me, wrote to his aunt firſt; for he was well aſſured that his father would agree to any thing which ſhe thought for his advantage.’

‘He had a very favourable an⯑ſwer from Mrs. Gibbons, for ſhe had changed her mind alſo, with regard to his being an officer, as war was then talked of; and ſhe was afraid of his being ſent abroad. He ſhewed me her let⯑ter, and ſhe told him in it, that [177] ſince he was reſolved to ſettle in the country, ſhe approved of his marrying; and was glad he had not fixed his affections upon ſome homeſpun farmer's daughter, but had choſen a gen⯑tlewoman, and one who was well brought up. She added, that ſhe intended to come into the country, in a few weeks; and if ſhe found the young lady (ſo ſhe called me) anſwered his deſcription, ſhe would haſten the marriage, and ſettle us hand⯑ſomely.—Oh! how pleaſed was I with this letter, and how did it rejoice Mr. William!’

‘I ſhould never have done, were I to tell you all the tender things he ſaid to me. Mr. Gibbons, at his ſon's deſire, came to my father, and begged him to give his conſent, which he obtained; for my father had well conſidered [178] the affair before: and nothing was wanting but Mrs. Gibbon's arrival to make us all happy. Mr. William thought every hour an age till ſhe came, and preſt her continually in his letters to haſten her journey.’

‘Alas! if he had known what was to happen, he would not have been ſo impatient; for ſoon after ſhe came, all our fine hopes were blaſted; and I have now nothing to expect but miſe⯑ry.’

CHAP. XIV. Sir Charles makes his appearance again.

POOR Dolly was ſo oppreſſed with grief, when ſhe came to this part of her ſtory, that ſhe was unable to proceed, and burſt into tears. The tender Sophia, who was greatly affected with the anguiſh ſhe ſaw her in, employed every ſooth⯑ing art to comfort her. And Dolly being a little compoſed, was going to continue her ſtory, when ſhe ſaw her ſiſter looking about for them; Sophia and ſhe immediately roſe up and joined Fanny, who rallied them both upon their fondneſs for lonely places; but perceiving that Dolly had been weeping, ſhe im⯑mediately became grave, and ac⯑commodated her looks and beha⯑viour [180] to the gentle melancholy of her ſiſter.

Sophia, from the ſtate of her own mind, was but too much diſ⯑poſed to ſympathize with the love⯑ſick Dolly: theſe ſoftening conver⯑ſations were ill calculated to baniſh from her remembrance the firſt ob⯑ject of her innocent affections; and who, with all his faults, ſhe ſtill loved. Dolly's ſtory awakened a thouſand tender ideas, and recalled to her memory every part of Sir Charles's conduct which had any reſemblance to that of the faithful and paſſionate William.

She dwelt with tender regret up⯑on theſe pleaſing images, and for a while forgot how neceſſary it was for her peace, to ſuppreſs every thought of Sir Charles, that tended to leſſen her juſt reſentment againſt him.

[181]But, good and pious as ſhe was, the paſſion ſhe could not wholly ſubdue, ſhe regulated by reaſon and virtue; for, as an eminent Divine ſays, ‘Although it is not in our power to make affliction no af⯑fliction; yet we may take off the edge of it, by a ſteady view of thoſe divine joys prepared for us in another ſtate.’

It was quite otherwiſe with Sir Sir Charles: for the guilty, if un⯑happy, are doubly ſo; becauſe they are deprived of thoſe reſources of comfort, which the virtuous are ſure to find in the conſciouſneſs of hav⯑ing acted well.

Sir Charles, upon finding his ſet⯑tlement ſent back to him, in ſuch a manner, as ſhewed not only the moſt obſtinate reſolution to reject his offers, but alſo a ſettled con⯑tempt for the offerer, became a prey [182] to the moſt violent paſſions: rage, grief, affronted pride, love ill re⯑quited, and diſappointed hope, tor⯑mented him by turns; nor was jea⯑louſy without a place in his heart; the chaſte, the innocent, the re⯑ſerved Sophia, became ſuſpected by the man, who in vain attempted to corrupt her; ſo true it is, that li⯑bertiniſm gives ſuch a colour to the actions of others, as takes away all diſtinction between virtue and vice.

Love, he argued, is either re⯑warded with a reciprocal affection, or with an inward and ſecret con⯑tempt; therefore he imputed So⯑phia's rejection of his offers, not to her diſapprobation of the intention of them, but to want of affection for his perſon; and from her youth, and the tender ſenſibility of her heart, he concluded, that ſince he had failed in making an impreſſion on it, it was already beſtowed upon [183] another; one while he reſolved to think no more of her, and repay her indifference and diſdain with ſi⯑lence and neglect; the next mo⯑ment, dreading leſt he had loſt her for ever, he regretted his having alarmed her with too early a diſco⯑very of his intentions, and ſome⯑times his paſſion tranſported him ſo far, as to make him think ſeriouſly of offering her his hand: then ſtart⯑ing at his own weakneſs, and ap⯑prehenſive of the conſequences, he ſought to arm himſelf againſt that tenderneſs which ſuggeſted ſo mad a deſign, by reflecting on her indif⯑ference towards him, and account⯑ing for it in ſuch a manner, as fix⯑ed the ſharpeſt ſtings of jealouſy in his mind.

Thus various and perplexed were his thoughts and deſigns; and he was incapable of reſolving upon any thing, except to ſee her; and ſo [184] was his impatience, that he would have ſet out for London the mo⯑ment he received the fatal paper, but decency would not permit him to leave his uncle, who was in a dying condition, and wiſhed only to expire in his arms.

The poor man, however, linger⯑ed a week longer, during which Sir Charles paſſed ſome of the moſt melancholy hours he had ever known; at length his uncle's death left him at liberty to return to Lon⯑don, which he did immediately, and alighted at Mrs. Darnley's houſe. Upon hearing ſhe was at home, he did not ſend in his name, but walked up ſtairs with a beating heart; he found Mrs. Darnley and Harriot together, but not ſeeing the perſon whom he only wiſhed to ſee, he caſt a melancholy look round the room, and anſwering, in a confuſed and dejected manner, the mother's [185] exceſſive politeneſs, and the cold civility of the daughter, he threw himſelf into a chair with a deep ſigh, and was ſilent.

So evident a diſcompoſure pleaſed Mrs. Darnley as much as it mor⯑tified Harriot. As for Sir Charles, pride and reſentment hindered him at firſt from enquiring for Sophia; but his anxiety and impatience to hear of her, ſoon prevailed over all other conſiderations; and though he aſked for her with an affected care⯑leſſneſs, yet his eyes, and the tone of his voice betrayed him.

Mrs. Darnley told him, that ſhe was gone into the country: ‘Very much againſt my inclination,’ ſaid ſhe: ‘but Mr. Herbert, who you know, Sir, has great power over her, more I think than I have, would have it ſo.’

Sir Charles growing pale as death, replied, in great emotion, ‘What! [186] gone into the country? Where is ſhe gone? to whom? why did ſhe go? Againſt your inclina⯑tion, did you ſay, Madam? what could poſſibly induce her to this? You ſurprize me exceſſively.’

Harriot, who did not chuſe to be preſent at the explanation of this affair, now roſe up, and went out of the room, ſmiling ſarcaſtically, as ſhe paſſed by Sir Charles, and bridling with all the triumph of conſcious beauty. He, who was in a bad humour, beheld her airs not only with indifference but con⯑tempt, which he ſuffered to appear pretty plain in his countenance; for he thought it but juſt to mortify her for her ill uſage of her ſiſter, with⯑out conſidering that he himſelf was far more guilty, in that reſpect, towards the amiable Sophia, and equally deſerved to be hated by her.

[187]When Harriot was gone, Mrs. Darnley inſtantly renewed the con⯑verſation concerning Sophia; and finding that the young baronet liſt⯑ened to her, with eager attention, ſhe gave him a full account of all that had happened during his ab⯑ſence: ſhe repreſented Sophia as hav⯑ing followed implicitly the direc⯑tions of Mr. Herbert, whom ſhe called a buſy, meddling, officious, old man; and as the behaviour of her daughter, at her going away, gave ſufficient room to believe, that her heart ſuffered greatly by the ef⯑fort ſhe made, ſhe dwelt upon every circumſtance that tended to ſhew the concern ſhe was under; and did not ſcruple to exaggerate, where ſhe thought it would be pleaſing.

Sir Charles, though he inwardly rejoiced at what he heard, yet diſ⯑ſembled ſo well, that no ſigns of it appeared in his countenance. He [188] now ſeemed to liſten with much indifference, and coldly ſaid, he was ſorry Miſs Sophia would not permit him to make her eaſy.

The tranquillity he affected, a⯑larmed Mrs. Darnley: ſhe who was ever ready to judge by appearances, concluded that all was over, and that the baronet was irrecoverably loſt; but had her judgment been more acute, ſhe would have per⯑ceived, that he was ſtill deeply in⯑tereſted in every thing that related to Sophia. The queſtions he aſk⯑ed were not ſuch as curioſity ſug⯑geſts, but the tender anxiety of doubting love. Mrs. Darnley in⯑formed him of all he wiſhed to hear; Sophia had indeed fled from him, but not without reluctance and grief: ſhe was at preſent re⯑moved from his ſight, but ſhe was removed to ſilence and ſolitude; and ſhe carried with her a fond im⯑preſſion, [189] which ſolitude would not fail to increaſe.

Thus ſatisfied, he put an end to his viſit, with all imaginable com⯑poſure, leaving Mrs. Darnley in doubt, whether ſhe ſhould ſee him again, and more enraged than ever with Mr. Herbert, whoſe fatal coun⯑ſels had overthrown all her hopes.

CHAP. XV. Dolly meets her Lover unexpectedly.

IT was not long before Sophia had an account of Sir Charles's viſit from her mother, who, for⯑getting the part ſhe had acted be⯑fore, wrote her a letter full of in⯑vectives againſt her obſtinacy and diſobedience, and bitter upbraid⯑ings of her folly, for loſing by her ill-timed pride the heart of ſuch a man as Sir Charles.

She told her, with a kind of ex⯑ultation, that he had entirely for⯑gotten her, and repeated every cir⯑cumſtance of his behaviour while he was with her, and every word he had ſpoke, as all tending to ſhew his indifference; but though this was done to mortify Sophia, and make her repent of her precipitate [191] departure, yet her diſcernment, and that facility which lovers have, in flattering their own wiſhes, pointed out to her many things in this minute relation, which ſerved rather to nouriſh hope than deſtroy it.

Mrs. Darnley added, as the fi⯑niſhing ſtroke, that Sir Charles looked pale and thin; ſhe attribut⯑ed this alteration in his health to efforts he had made to baniſh her from his heart, and thence inferred that a reſolution which had coſt him ſo much trouble to confirm, would not be eaſily broke through; and that ſhe had no reaſon to ex⯑pect he would ever deſire to ſee her more.

Sophia could not read this part of the letter without tears, tears that flowed from tender ſenſibility, accompanied with a ſenſation which was neither grief nor joy, but com⯑poſed [192] of both: that Sir Charles ſhould reſolve to forget her was in⯑deed afflicting, but that this reſo⯑lution ſhould coſt him ſtruggles ſo painful as to affect his health, could not but raiſe her depreſſed hopes, ſince it ſhewed the difficulty of the attempt, and conſequently that the ſucceſs was doubtful.

This letter gave ſo much employ⯑ment to her thoughts, that to be at liberty to indulge them ſhe took her evening walk without ſollicit⯑ing the company of her beloved Dolly, and wandered far into the wood, attracted by thoſe romantic ſhades which afford ſuch ſoothing pleaſure to a love-ſick mind. Here, while ſhe meditated on her mother's letter, and read it over and over, ſtill ſeeking, and ſtill finding ſome⯑thing new in it to engage her at⯑tention, ſhe heard the voices of ſome perſons talking behind her, [193] and ſuddenly recollecting Dolly's adventure, ſhe began to be alarmed at the diſtance to which ſhe had unwarily ſtrayed, and turned her ſteps haſtily towards home.

Mean time a ſudden guſt of wind blew off her hat, and carried it ſe⯑veral paces back: ſhe turned, in order to recover it, and ſaw it taken up by a genteel young man, who on a nearer approach ſhe knew to be the lover of her young friend. Pleaſed at this encounter, ſhe ad⯑vanced to receive her hat from him, which he gave her with a bluſhing grace, awed by the dignity of her mein, and that ſparkling in⯑telligence which beamed in her eyes, and ſeemed to penetrate into his inmoſt ſoul; for Sophia, who was deeply intereſted for her inno⯑cent and unhappy friend, conſider⯑ed him attentively, and was deſi⯑rous of entering into ſome conver⯑ſation [194] with him, that ſhe might be enabled to form a more exact judg⯑ment of his underſtanding and manners than ſhe could from the accounts of the partial Dolly.

While ſhe was talking to him they were joined by an ancient gen⯑tlewoman, who accoſting Sophia, told her in an affected ſtyle and for⯑mal accent, that her nephew was very happy in having had an oppor⯑tunity to do her this little piece of ſervice.

Sophia, who ſaw an old woman, apparently oppreſt with the infirmi⯑ties of years, dreſt in all the ridi⯑culous foppery of the laſt age, was ſo little pleaſed with her, that ſhe would have anſwered this compli⯑ment with great coldneſs, had not the deſire and hope of being ſer⯑viceable to her friend made her conquer her growing diſguſt; ſhe therefore reſolved to improve this [195] opportunity of commencing an ac⯑quaintance with the aunt of young William, and met her advances with her uſual ſweetneſs and affa⯑bility, ſo that the old woman was quite charmed with her; and be⯑ing very deſirous to gain her good opinion, and to ſhew her breeding, of which ſhe was extremely vain, overwhelmed her with troubleſome ceremony; and, to diſplay her un⯑derſtanding, of which ſhe was e⯑qually proud, murdered ſo many hard words, that her diſcourſe was ſcarcely intelligible.

Sophia would fain have drawn in the youth to partake of their con⯑verſation, but his aunt's volubility left him very little to ſay; yet in that little Sophia thought ſhe diſ⯑covered both good ſenſe and polite⯑neſs.

The evening being now pretty far advanced, Sophia thought it time [196] to ſeparate, and took leave of her new acquaintance. Their parting was protracted by ſo many courte⯑ſies and compliments from the old lady, that her patience was almoſt wearied out; at laſt ſhe got free from her, and quickened her pace towards home, when on a ſudden ſhe heard her in a tremulous voice calling out, ‘Madam, madam, pray ſtop one moment.’ Sophia look⯑ed back, and ſeeing Mrs. Gibbons come tottering up to her with more ſpeed than was conſiſtent with her weakneſs, ſhe met her half way, and ſmiling, aſked her why ſhe had turned back.

"Oh, madam," replied ſhe, I ‘am ready to ſink with confuſion! what a ſolſim in good breeding have I committed! to be ſure you will think I have been uſed to converſe with ſavages only.’ So⯑phia, [197] not able to gueſs what this ſpeech tended to, looked at Mr. Gibbons as if ſhe wiſhed for an explanation.

"My aunt, madam," ſaid the youth, (bluſhing a little at the old woman's affectation,) ‘is concern⯑ed that you ſhould walk home alone, and that I cannot offer my ſervice to attend you, being obliged to lead her, as you ſee.’

"That is not all, nephew," ſaid the ceremonious gentlewoman: ‘you do not tell the young lady the true cauſe of the dilemnia I am in: I would not leave you, madam,’ purſued ſhe, ‘till I ſaw you ſafe home, but you live with a family who has affronted me, and I cannot endure to come within ſight of the houſe. I ne⯑ver can forgive an affront, that would be to ſhew I do not un⯑derſtand the laws of good breed⯑ing: [198] but I thank heaven no body can charge me with that, I was very early inſtituted into polite life; but ſome people are not to be aſſeſſed with.’

"I hope," ſaid Sophia, (ſcarce able to compoſe her countenance to any tolerable degree of ſeriouſ⯑neſs) ‘that none of Mr. Lawſon's family have given you cauſe of complaint: they ſeem to me in⯑capable of affronting any one, much more a perſon that’ —

"Oh, dear madam," interrupted the old lady, courteſying low, ‘you do me a great deal of honour; but you will find, nay you muſt have obſerved already, that Mrs. Lawſon is vulgar, very vulgar, ſhe knows nothing of decorums.’

‘I am very ſorry for this miſ⯑underſtanding between you,’ ſaid Sophia, ‘and I ſhould think it a very great happineſs if I could [199] be any way uſeful in renewing your friendſhip.’

"Oh," cried Mrs. Gibbons, ‘you might as well think of join⯑ing the Antipoles, madam, as of bringing us together again; and I am grieved beyond meaſure when I think that it is impoſſible for me to wait on you.’

"However," anſwered Sophia, ‘you will have no objection, I hope, to my coming to ſee you.’

‘Oh! I muſt not admit of that by any means, madam,’ replied Mrs. Gibbons, ‘you came laſt into the country, and you are entitled to the firſt viſit; I would not for the world break through the laws of politeneſs; I am ſorry you have ſo indifferent an opinion of my breeding.’

Sophia perceiving that the old gentlewoman was a little diſcom⯑poſed, [200] for this article of good breed⯑ing was a tender point with her, endeavoured to bring her into good humour, by ſome well-timed com⯑pliments, and once more took leave of her; but Mrs. Gibbons now in⯑ſiſted upon her nephew's ſeeing her ſafe home, ſaying, ‘She would reſt herſelf under a tree till he came back.’

Sophia but faintly declined this civility, for ſhe feared to offend her again; and the joy that ſpark⯑led in William's eyes when his aunt made this offer of his attend⯑ance, made her unwilling to diſap⯑point him of the hope of ſeeing his miſtreſs; ſo after much ceremony on the part of Mrs. Gibbons, they ſeparated.

As they walked, Sophia took oc⯑caſion to expreſs her concern for the violent reſentment his aunt had [201] entertained againſt Mr. Lawſon's family, and which ſeemed to make a reconciliation hopeleſs.

The youth told her, that nothing could be more trivial than the ac⯑cident that had occaſioned it; "and yet," purſued he, ſighing deeply, ‘ſlight as it is, the con⯑ſequences are likely to be fatal enough.’

During their converſation Sophia diſcovered ſo much good ſenſe and delicacy of ſentiment in the young William, that ſhe more than ever pitied the fate of theſe poor lovers, whoſe happineſs was ſacrificed to the capricious temper of an affect⯑ed old woman: ſhe aſſured him ſhe would neglect no opportunity to improve her acquaintance with his aunt: "And perhaps," ſaid ſhe, with an inchanting ſmile, that expreſſed the benevolence of her heart, ‘I may be ſo fortunate as [202] to effect a reconciliation between her and my Dolly's family.’

Mr. Gibbons thanked her in tranſports of joy and gratitude; and now Dolly and her ſiſter, who had walked out in ſearch of Sophia, ap⯑pearing in ſight, ſhe mended her pace, in order to come up with them ſoon; for in the ardent glances that William ſent towards his miſtreſs, ſhe read his impatience to ſpeak to her.

Dolly, who was in the utmoſt ſurpriſe, to ſee Sophia thus accom⯑panied, took no notice of William; but avoiding, with a ſweet baſhful⯑neſs, his earneſt and paſſionate looks, ſhe fixed her eyes on Miſs Darnley, as if ſhe wiſhed to hear from her by what chance they had met.

"I know," ſaid Sophia to her ſmiling, ‘that you did not expect to ſee me ſo agreeably engaged; but Mr. Gibbons can inform you [203] how his aunt, whom we left in the foreſt yonder, and I became acquainted.’ She then addreſſed ſome diſcourſe to Fanny, to give the lovers an opportunity of talking to each other.

Dolly aſked a thouſand queſtions concerning their meeting, and his aunt's behaviour to Miſs Darnley; but the paſſionate youth leaving it to Sophia to ſatisfy her curioſity, employed the few moments he had to ſtay with her in tender aſſur⯑ances of his own unaltered affec⯑tion, and complaints of her in⯑difference.

"Surely," ſaid Dolly, with tears in her eyes, ‘I ought not to be blamed for obeying my father.’

"Ah, my dear Dolly," replied William, ‘our affections are not in the power of our fathers; [204] and if you hate me now be⯑cauſe your father commands you to do ſo, you never loved me.’

"Hate you," cried Dolly; ‘no, Mr. William, my father never bid me hate you; and if he had I am ſure I could not have obey⯑ed him: he only commanded me to forget you.’

"Only to forget me!" repeated William in a melancholy tone: ‘then you think that little, Dol⯑ly; and perhaps you will be able to obey him; but be aſſured I would rather be hated by you than forgotten.’

"That is ſtrange, indeed," ſaid Dolly, ſmiling through her tears.

‘You would not think it ſtrange,’ replied the youth, in an accent that expreſſed at once [205] grief and reſentment, ‘if you had ever loved. Ah Dolly! are all your tender promiſes come to this! little did I imagine I ſhould ever ſee you altered thus! but I will trouble you no more,’ added he, ſighing, as if his heart would break; ‘I will endeavour to follow your example: per⯑haps it is not ſo difficult a thing as I imagined to cure one's ſelf of love; you have ſhewn me it is poſſible, and if I fail in the attempt, I can be but miſerable, and that you have made me now.’ As he ſpoke theſe words, he turned half from her, and let fall ſome tears.

Dolly, who had no intention to make him uneaſy, was exceſſively affected with this ſight, and not a little alarmed at what he had ſaid: "And will you," ſaid ſhe, in the moſt moving tone imaginable; ‘[206]will you try to forget me? then indeed you will be falſe and perjured too, for you have ſworn a thouſand times that you would love me for ever.’

‘Why ſhould you wiſh to ſee me wretched,’ ſaid he; ‘you have reſolved to love me no longer, and it is but reaſonable that I ſhould try to forget you.’

He would have proceeded in this ſtrain; but turning to look on her, he ſaw her ſweet face overſpread with tears. "Oh my Dolly," cried he, ‘we are very cruel to each other; but I am moſt to blame: can you pardon me, my deareſt: ſay you can; alas, I know I do not deſerve it.’

Dolly's heart was ſo oppreſt, that ſhe was not able to ſpeak; but ſhe held out her hand to her young lover, who ſeizing it eagerly, preſt it to his lips, ‘Yes, I will love [207] you,’ ſaid he, ‘though you ſhould hate me; I will love you to my lateſt breath.’

Dolly perceiving Sophia and her ſiſter coming up to them, drew away her hand haſtily; but look⯑ed on him at the ſame time, with inexpreſſible tenderneſs: Sophia told him with a ſmile, that ſhe was afraid his aunt would be im⯑patient: upon which he made his bow, and haſtened back to her.

CHAP. XVI. Dolly concludes her Story.

FANNY now left her ſiſter alone with Miſs Darnley, who perceiving that ſhe had been weep⯑ing, aſked her tenderly the cauſe. ‘Oh my dear miſs, ſaid the poor girl bluſhing and preſſing her hand, if I had but a little of your prudence and good ſenſe, I ſhould obey my father better; but when one has once given one's heart, it is very difficult to recal it.’

"Very true, my dear," ſaid So⯑phia; ‘therefore one ought not to be in haſte to give it.’

"I hope," interrupted Dolly with an anxious look, ‘you have obſerved nothing in Mr. William to make you change your good opinion of him.’

[209]"Quite the contrary," ſaid So⯑phia, ‘I believe him to be a good, and I am ſure he is a ſenſible youth: nay more, I believe he has a ſincere regard for you; and that,’ purſued ſhe, ſighing, ‘is ſaying a great deal, conſidering what reaſon I have to judge un⯑favourably of men: but, my dear, I would have you keep your paſſion ſo far ſubjected to your reaſon, as to make it not too difficult for you to obey your father, if he is fully determined to refuſe his conſent. I know,’ added ſhe, with a gentle ſmile, ‘That it is eaſier to be wife for others than for ourſelves; but I know it is not impoſſible for a heart in love to follow the dictates of reaſon: I think ſo highly of Mr. Law⯑ſon's underſtanding and goodneſs, that I am perſuaded he would not lay an unreaſonable command [210] upon you, and by what I could collect from ſome hints dropt by Mrs. Gibbons, and the little diſcourſe I had with your lover, the old gentlewoman is wholly to blame.’

"Did Mr. William tell you," ſaid Dolly, ‘what was the occaſi⯑on of their quarrel.’

"No," replied Sophia: ‘I ſhould be glad to hear it from yourſelf.’

"Well," reſumed Dolly, ‘tak⯑ing her under the arm, let us go to our dear oak then, and there we ſhall be out of ſight; but I am impatient to know how you met, and what converſation you had.’ Sophia ſatisfied her curi⯑oſity, diverting herſelf a little with the old lady's hard words, and her ſtrict regard to ceremony.

"Ah," ſaid Dolly, ‘it was thoſe hard words, and the clut⯑ter [211] ſhe made about ceremony and decorum, that occaſioned all our unhappineſs; for as I told you, miſs, ſhe was well enough pleaſ⯑ed with her nephew's choice, ſaying, that he was in the right to marry like a gentleman, and prefer perſon and breeding to money: however, ſoon after ſhe came into the country, ſhe ſhew⯑ed herſelf a little diſſatisfied with my education, and ſaid, that as my father was a gentleman and a ſcholar, he ought to have taught his daughters a little Greek and Latin, to have diſtinguiſhed them from meer country girls,’

"Your mother, I ſupppoſe," ſaid Sophia, ‘laughed at this no⯑tion.’

"It does not become me," ſaid Dolly, to blame my mother; ‘but to be ſure ſhe took great delight in ridiculing Mrs. Gibbons: in⯑deed [212] it was ſcarce poſſible to help ſmiling now and then at her hard words, and her formal po⯑liteneſs; but my mother, as Mr. William often told me with great concern, carried her raillery ſo far that his aunt would cer⯑tainly be offended with it at laſt; and ſo indeed ſhe was, and grew every day cooler, with regard to the marriage. This diſguſted my mother more, ſo every thing wore a melancholy appearance: at length Mrs. Gibbons broke out one day violently, upon my mother's ſending a diſh of tea to another gentlewoman before her. I ſaw a ſtorm in her countenance, and dreading the conſequence, I made haſte to carry her, her diſh myſelf, but ſhe refuſed it ſcorn⯑fully, and then began to attack my mother in her ſtrange lan⯑guage, upon her want of breed⯑ing, [213] and ignorance of the rules of precendency, that was her word. My mother at firſt only laughed, and rallied; but when the reſt of our viſitors was gone, and Mrs. Gibbons only remained, the quarrel grew ſerious. My mother, who was out of patience with her folly, ſaid ſome ſevere things, which provoked Mrs. Gib⯑bons ſo much, that ſhe roſe up in a fury, and declared ſhe would never more any have collection with ſuch vulgar creatures. At that moment my father and Mr. Wil⯑liam, who had been walking to⯑gether, came into the room: they both were exceſſively ſur⯑priſed at the diſorder which ap⯑peared among us: and poor Mr. William, who was moſt appre⯑henſive, turned as pale as death: he gave me a melancholy look, as fearing what had happened, and [214] had ſcarce courage enough to aſk his aunt what was the matter? Mean time, my mother, in a laughing way gave my father an account of what had happened, repeating ſome of Mrs. Gibbons's ſtrange words, and made the whole affair appear ſo ridiculous, that Mrs. Gibbons in a great fu⯑ry, flung out of the houſe, de⯑claring that from that moment ſhe broke of any treatiſe of mar⯑riage between her nephew and me; and that if he continued to make his addreſſes to me, ſhe would make a will, and leave all her money to a diſtant relation. Mr. William was obliged to fol⯑low his aunt; but he begged my father's leave to return as ſoon as he had ſeen her ſafe home. When he came back, he implored my father, with tears in his eyes, not to forbid his ſeeing me: he ſaid [215] the loſs of his aunt's fortune would give, him no concern if he durſt hope that it would make no alteration in my father's reſo⯑lutions, ſince his own little in⯑heritance was ſufficient to main⯑tain us comfortably. My father was pleaſed with his generous af⯑fection for me, and ſaid a great many obliging things to him, as did my mother likewiſe: ſo that we thought our misfortune not ſo bad; but the next day old far⯑mer Gibbons came plodding to our houſe, and with a great deal of con⯑fuſion and aukwardneſs, told my father that he was very ſorry for what had happened; but ſiſter had changed her mind, and would not let her nephew marry, and he was afraid if he diſobliged her ſhe would leave all her money to ſtrangers; ſo he begged him to give his ſon no encouragement, [216] but to tell him plainly he muſt obey his aunt and his father; and he ſaid he was ſure his ſon would mind what my father ſaid to him more than any body elſe.’

‘I am in pain for poor Mr. Lawſon,’ ſaid Sophia. ‘What a booriſh ſpeech was this!’

"My father," reſumed Dolly, ‘ſaid afterwards, that if it had not been for the concern he felt for me and Mr. William, he ſhould have been exceſſively diverted with the old man's ſimplicity; but he anſwered him gravely, and with great civility: he promiſed him that the affair ſhould go no farther; that I ſhould receive no more viſits from his ſon; and that he would talk with him, and endeavour to make him ſub⯑mit patiently to what his father and his aunt had determined for him. The old man thanked my [217] father a thouſand times over for his kindneſs, and after a great many bows and ſcrapes he went away. My father was as good as his word: he laid his com⯑mands on me to think no more of Mr. William, and forbad me to ſee or ſpeak to him; and when Mr. William came next, he took him with him into his ſtudy, and talked to him a long time. He acknowledged that Mr. William had oftener than once moved him even to tears; but for all that he did not relent, and we were not allowed ſo much as to ſpeak to each other alone, for fear we ſhould take any meaſures to meet in private. This I thought very ſevere,’ purſued Dolly, ſigh⯑ing, ‘we might at leaſt have been indulged in taking leave, ſince we were to be ſeparated for ever.’

[218]"I cannot blame your father," ſaid Sophia, ‘he was indiſpenſably obliged to act as he did: it is to be wiſhed, indeed, that Mrs. Lawſon had paſſed over the poor woman's follies with more tem⯑per; but this cannot be helped now: perhaps I may be able to ſerve you. The old gentlewo⯑man ſeems to have taken a liking to me; I ſhall endeavour to im⯑prove it, that I may have an op⯑tunity to ſoften her: it is not im⯑poſſible but this matter may end well yet.’

CHAP. XVII. Mrs. Darnley and Harriot reſolve to viſit Sophia.

POOR Dolly was ready enough to admit a hope ſo pleaſing, and felt her heart more at eaſe than it had been a long time. As for William, his aunt's extravagant praiſes of Sophia, and ſome ex⯑preſſions which ſhe dropped, inti⯑mating that ſhe ſhould be pleaſed if he could make himſelf accept⯑able to ſo fine a lady, hinted to him a ſcheme which might afford him the means of ſeeing his miſ⯑treſs ſometimes: he ſeemed there⯑fore to liſten with ſatisfaction to theſe dark overtures made by his aunt, and upon her ſpeaking ſtill plainer, he ſaid it would be pre⯑ſumption in him to think that a [220] young lady ſo accompliſhed as Miſs Darnley would look down upon him; and beſides, he had no op⯑portunity of improving an ac⯑quaintance with her, being for⯑bid Mr. Lawſon's houſe, at her requeſt.

The old woman, pleaſed to find he made ſo little oppoſition to her deſire, told him, ‘That he would have opportunities enough of ſee⯑ing and converſing with the lady; ſhe often walks out, ſaid ſhe, either in the foreſt or the fields about the houſe: cannot you throw yourſelf in her way, and accoſt her politely, as you very well know how; and, to felicitate your ſucceſs, I will let her know that I am willing to receive the honour of a viſit from her, though this is againſt all the rules of decorum, for it is my part to viſit her firſt, ſhe being [221] the greateſt ſtranger here: you ſhall deliver my meſſage to her to-morrow yourſelf.’

The youth replied, coldly, ‘that it was poſſible he might not meet with her to-morrow: neverthe⯑leſs, he would go every day to the foreſt, and wherever it was likely ſhe would walk, in hopes of ſee⯑ing her.’

Mrs. Gibbons, exulting in the hope of mortifying Mrs. Lawſon, told her nephew, ‘That if he could ſucceed in his addreſſes to miſs Darnley, and give her ſo fine a lady for a niece, ſhe would ſet⯑tle the beſt part of her fortune on him immediately.’

William ſuffered her to pleaſe herſelf with theſe imaginations, hav⯑ing ſecured the liberty of going un⯑ſuſpected, and as often as he pleaſ⯑ed, to thoſe places where he could ſee his beloved Dolly; hitherto he [222] had not dared to indulge himſelf frequently in theſe ſtolen inter⯑views, leſt his aunt being inform⯑ed of them ſhould take meaſures to engage Mr. Lawſon to keep his daughter under a greater reſtraint; but now he continually haunted the park, the wood, and the fields about Mr. Lawſon's houſe: here he could not fail of often ſeeing his miſtreſs, and ſometimes of ſpeaking to her unobſerved by any one.

Dolly never failed to chide him as often as this happened, for thus laying her under a neceſſity of diſ⯑obeying her father's injunctions; but ſhe took no pains to ſhun thoſe places where ſhe was almoſt ſure of meeting him; and her chiding was ſo gentle, that he was convinced ſhe was not greatly offended.

Sophia happening to meet him [223] one morning, while he was thus ſauntering about, ſhe enquired for his aunt, and hearing from him how deſirous the old gentlewoman was of ſeeing her, ſhe who was full of her benevolent ſcheme, and eager to put it in execution, de⯑layed her viſit no longer than till the afternoon.

Mrs. Gibbons conſidered this as a proof of her nephew's ſincerity, and was in ſo good a humour, that ſhe liſtened without any ſigns of diſpleaſure, to the praiſes which Sophia artfully introduced of Dolly; and even ſometimes joined in them. Sophia thought this a very favour⯑able beginning, and went away full of hope that ſhe ſhould ſucceed in her deſign: but while ſhe was thus endeavouring to make others happy, her ſiſter was preparing a new mortification for her.

Sir Charles continued to viſit [224] Mrs. Darnley as uſual: he paſſed ſome hours every day at her houſe, and while he applauded himſelf for the ſteadineſs of his reſolution, not to follow his miſtreſs, he perceived not his own weakneſs in ſeeking every alleviation of her ab⯑ſence. He went to the houſe where ſhe had formerly dwelt, be⯑cauſe every object he ſaw in it brought her dear idea to his mind: he loved to turn over the books he had ſeen her read, to ſit in thoſe places where ſhe uſed to ſit: he was tranſported when he ſaw any thing that belonged to her; and when he was not obſerved by the inquiſitive eyes of Harriot, he in⯑dulged his own in gazing upon So⯑phia's picture, faintly as it expreſſed the attractive graces of the original: he endured the trifling diſcourſe of Mrs. Darnley, and the inſipid gaiety of Harriot, and left all other [225] company and amuſements to con⯑verſe with them, that he might hear ſomething concerning Sophia; for he had the art, without ſeeming to deſign it, to turn the diſcourſe fre⯑quently upon her, and thus drew from the loquacious mother all he deſired to know, without appearing to be intereſted in it.

Mrs. Darnley knew not what judgment to form of his aſſiduity in viſiting her, and vainly endeavoured to penetrate into his views. As for Harriot, who had no idea of thoſe refinements of tenderneſs, which influenced Sir Charles's conduct on this occaſion, ſhe concluded that her charms had once more enſlaved him, and exulted in her fancied conqueſt the more, as it was a triumph over her ſiſter, who had been the occaſion of ſo many mor⯑tifications to her.

Nothing is ſo eaſy or ſo fallacious [226] as the belief that we are beloved and admired; our own vanity helps the deceit, where a deceit is in⯑tended: and a coquet who has a double portion of it, willingly de⯑ceives herſelf.

Harriot was now fully perſuaded that Sir Charles had forgot Sophia, and was wholly devoted to her. Impatient to inſult her with the news of his change, ſhe propoſed to her mother to make her a viſit: Mrs. Darnley immediately conſent⯑ed, not becauſe ſhe was very deſi⯑rous to ſee her daughter, but be⯑cauſe every thing that wore the face of amuſement was always ac⯑ceptable to her. Sir Charles, upon being made acquainted with their intention, offered to accommodate them with his chariot; and al⯑though he only deſired them coldly to preſent his compliments to So⯑phia, yet when he reflected that [227] they would ſoon ſee and converſe with her, he could not help envy⯑ing their happineſs; and it was with great difficulty he conquered himſelf ſo far as to forbear going with them.