Henrietta: By the author of The female Quixote. In two volumes. ... [pt.2]

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- THE CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

- HENRIETTA. BOOK THE THIRD.

- CHAP. I.

- CHAP. II.

- CHAP. III.

- CHAP. IV.

- CHAP. V.

- CHAP. VI.

- CHAP. VII.

- CHAP. VIII.

- CHAP. IX.

- CHAP. X.

- CHAP. XI.

- HENRIETTA. BOOK THE FOURTH.

- CHAP. I.

- CHAP. II.

- CHAP. III.

- CHAP. IV.

- CHAP. V.

- CHAP. VI.

- CHAP. VII.

- HENRIETTA. BOOK THE FIFTH.

- CHAP. I.

- CHAP. II.

- CHAP. III.

- CHAP. IV.

- CHAP. V.

- CHAP. VI.

- CHAP. VII.

- CHAP. VIII.

- CHAP. IX.

- CHAP. X.

- CHAP. XI.

- CHAP. XII.

HENRIETTA.

By the AUTHOR of THE FEMALE QUIXOTE.

IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II.

LONDON: Printed for A. MILLAR, in the Strand. MDCCLVIII.

THE CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

BOOK III.

- CHAP. I. In which our heroine meets with a new disappointment, and some farther instances of miss Woodby's friendship. p. 1

- CHAP. II. Which throws new lights upon Mr. Bale's behaviour, and contains a very improving conversation. p. 9

- CHAP. III. Which we are afraid will give some of our readers a mean opinion of our heroine's understanding. p. 20

- CHAP. IV. Which contains very trifling matters. p. 28

- CHAP. V. Which shews Henrietta in a new situation p. 32

- CHAP. VI. Contains an incident which the sagacious reader has probably foreseen. p. 46

- CHAP. VII. In which our heroine again appears very foolish. p. 56

- CHAP. VIII. Which contains a curious dialogue between the earl and the citizen. p. 67

- CHAP. IX. In which Henrietta has an interview with the countess. p. 74

- CHAP. X. Contains a discovery which it is hoped the reader will not be displeased with. p. 82

- CHAP. XI. Henrietta returns to London. p. 93

BOOK IV.

- CHAP. I.

Atheists have been but rare, since Nature's birth;

'Till now she-atheists ne'er appear'd on earth.

Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs

This daring character in timorous things!

Who start at feathers, from an insect fly,

A match for nothing—but the Deity.

p. 101

- CHAP. II. In which Henrietta makes a very fantastic distinction. p. 113

- CHAP. III. Which shews Henrietta in her new service, 〈◊〉 she acquits herself extremely ill. p. 124

- CHAP. IV. Gives the reader hopes of a favourable change in the circumstances of our fair heroine. p. 134

- CHAP. V. Destroys the expectations raised by the foregoing chapter. p. 139

- CHAP. VI. In which lord B— shews himself a true modern lover. p. 148

- CHAP. VII. Which concludes the fourth book of this history. p. 162

BOOK V.

- CHAP. I. Contains an adventure, in which our heroine is more than ordinarily interested. p. 182

- CHAP. II. Which shews that it is easier to be wise for others, than ourselves. p. 192

- CHAP. III. In which miss Belmour acts the part of a true female friend. p. 209

- CHAP. IV. Which contains a very interesting discovery. p. 218

- CHAP. V. The history continued. p. 229

- CHAP. VI. Farther continuation of the history. p. 240

- CHAP. VII. In which we are afraid some of our readers will think Mr. Courteney acts a very silly part. p. 246

- CHAP. VIII. In which Mr. Courteney gives more instances of his folly. p. 255

- CHAP. IX. In which the reader, it is presumed, can make no discoveries concerning the event of this history. p. 267

- CHAP. X. Which leaves the reader still in doubt. p. 2••

- CHAP. XI. In which the history draws near to a conclusion. p. 293

- CHAP. XII. Which concludes the history. p. 299

HENRIETTA. BOOK THE THIRD.

CHAP. I.

In which our heroine meets with a new disappointment, and some farther instances of miss Woodby's friendship.

HENRIETTA, being now left to her own reflections, beheld her late conduct in a light in which it had never appeared to her before; the sense of blame so justly incurred, filled her with remorse and shame. Hitherto she had industriously aggravated the cause of her fears, that she might not stand self-condemned; which to an ingenuous mind is of all others the greatest evil: but Mrs. Willis had stated her case too justly.

What force could give her unwilling hand to the old baronet? How could she be cheated into a convent, when she was forewarned of the design? From her obstinate opposition to her aunt's will, nothing worse could have happened than the loss of her favour and protection, which by her flight she had anticipated. She now wondered at the unreasona•••ness of her fears, and looked back with the deepest regret upon the errors they had occasioned

These melancholy thoughts, and her anxiety about the reception her aunt would give her, kept her waking almost the whole night. As soon as it was light, she rose, and dressed herself, impatient to be gone; Mrs. Willis at her summons made haste to join her, and, when they had breakfasted, set out immediately upon their journey; Henrietta full of perturbation and enquietude, Mrs. Willis with that ••••ity which attends the consciousness of doing what is right.

The young lady, as she drew nearer her aunt's dwelling, found her emotions increase; one while her imagination represented lady Meadows as kind and indulgent, ready to forgive her error, and to restore her to her affection; and, immediately after, she would tremble with the apprehension of her severe reproaches.

Mrs. Willis perceived her unea••ness, and used her utmost endeavours to compose 〈◊〉 but when the chaise stopped at the door, she was near falling into a fainting fit; and her friend was obliged to ask if lady Meadows was at home, for Henrietta was not able to speak.

The servant-maid who opened the door, having got a glympse of the young lady as she sat in the chaise, eagerly flew to the side of it— "O my dear miss!" said she, in a transport of joy, "is it you?"

"How do you do, Jenny?" said miss Courteney; and trembling, added, "is my aunt at home?"

"My lady," said the girl, ‘set out two days ago for her seat in Devonshire. Oh! miss, here has been sad doings, poor Mrs. White is turned away; there came an ugly mischief-making lady from London, and told my lady a heap of stories about you, and so Mrs. White was turned away: but won't you please to alight, miss?’

Henrietta looked at Mrs. Willis, for she knew not herself what to resolve on, the news she had heard having thrown her into the utmost perplexity — "I wish we could see Mrs. White," said Mrs. Willis to her in a whisper.

Miss Courteney immediately enquired of the maid, how long Mrs. White had left her aunt, and where she was to be found? The girl told her she had been gone above a week, and that she believed she was at her sister's in Windsor, Henrietta had often heard her mention her sister, who was married to a tradesman in Windsor; and, after she had taken leave of the poor affectionate girl, who wept to see her depart again, she gave the post-boy directions where to drive.

Mrs. White, when the chaise stopped at the door, heard from a little parlour where she was sitting, the voice of miss Courteney, enquiring for her, and flew with trembling eagerness to meet her.

"Oh! miss," said she, taking her hand, and leading her into the room, ‘I am rejoiced to see you: where have you been all this time —What an unfortunate creature was I to be the means of your taking such a rash resolution — Oh! that I had kept what I knew to myself— But surely, it was very unkind in you not to acquaint me with your design, not to ask my advice. I might have prevented all this trouble; but thank Heaven you are safe and well—well I see you are.’

Henrietta then interrupting the good woman, who, between chiding and fondness, had taken no notice of Mrs. Willis: ‘That I am safe (said she) I am obliged to this gentlewoman; for some strange treachery was preparing for me, I believe, but her care has prevented it.’

"Treachery!" interrupted Mrs. White— ‘Aye, you have met with enough of that, I suppose: there was your new-found friend and acquaintance, miss—I forget her name, whom you told all your secrets to; you made no scruple to trust her, miss, though you was so reserved to me; she was the occasion of my losing my place. Ah! miss, but I will not upbraid you; I see you are concerned: God forbid I should add to your uneasiness; I have suffered greatly upon your account. It was very unkind in you to put it in the power of a stranger to do me so much mischief: surely I did not deserve such a return from you. But God knows my heart, I would not upbraid you for the world; no, I scorn it; but I have been the greatest sufferer, I am sure, and yet I meant well.’

"Was not the lady's name Woodby?" interrupted Henrietta, impatient to hear the particulars of this new act of treachery and baseness.

"Aye, Woodby," replied Mrs. White, ‘a disagreeable creature as ever my eyes beheld. I shall never forget how she sidled into my lady's dressing-room, and, half out of breath, told her, she had taken the liberty to wait on her to bring her some news of her niece. I could not hear distinctly all she said, for my lady ordered me to withdraw; but I put my ear to the key-hole, as I had done once before for your service miss, which I have reason to repent, Heaven knows— but what is past cannot be helped— it is not my way to rip up things that are past.’

"Well," said Henrietta, ‘but what did you hear?’

"Nay, for that matter," resumed Mrs. White, ‘I may draw myself into another prem••e perhaps: after what I have suffered I ought to be cautious; but I love you, miss, and must tell you every thing, whatever it cost me, and that you have experienced already. Well, she made up a horrible story, that you had gone away suddenly from lodgings where she visited you, and notwithstanding the friendship there was between you, and a great clutter she made with that word, you went away without giving her any notice of your intention; and this she said had a strange appearance.’

Miss Courteney lifted up her eyes here, in astonishment at what she heard.

"As for me," continued Mrs. White, ‘she did my business in an instant; for as soon as she was gone, my lady sent for me, and, in a violent rage, told me I should not stay another night in her house. She was informed, she said, that I had been the cause of your running away, by filling your head with notions of her designing to confine you in a convent. She would hear nothing that I could say in my own defence; and dismissed me that very evening.’

"I am excessively sorry," said Henrietta, ‘that you should suffer so much on my account —It was indeed very imprudent in me to be so communicative to miss Woodby, but I could not imagine she was capable of so much treachery.’

‘But how have you been able to conceal yourself so well, miss, from the enquiries of all your friends?’ said Mrs. White. ‘Mr. Bale, it seems, your guardian's son, knew not where to find you.’

‘Did Mr. Bale say he knew not where I was?’ cried miss Courteney, in astonishment.

"He told Mr. Danvers so," replied Mrs. White, ‘who went several times by my lady's orders to enquire for you.’

‘Was there ever such complicated treachery!’ said Henrietta, looking at Mrs. Willis with tears in her eyes. ‘Well, my dear,’ said the good woman, ‘there is at least this advantage in misfortunes, that they bring us at last to wisdom. You will for the future be more cautious how you engage in such perilous enterprizes.’

"Ay, miss" said Mrs. White, ‘and how you trust false friends to the prejudice of your true ones—You see what it has cost me— but no more of that— I can forget and forgive.’

"Well, and what is now to be done?" said miss Courteney, folding her hands with a melancholy air.

"It is easy to answer that question," said Mrs. Willis; ‘you must write to your aunt, my dear, and give her an account of all that has happened to you. There is certainly something to condemn in what you have done; but in what you have suffered, there is much to be pitied. I am persuaded her tenderness will silence her resentment. I hoped to have left you with your aunt, miss,’ continued Mrs. Willis; ‘but since that cannot be, you will return with me, I suppose.’

"To be sure I will," said miss Courteney, ‘with whom in my present situation can I be so happy as with you?’

Mrs. White desired she might be permitted to come and see her, to which Henrietta readily consented; promising, if she was reconciled to her aunt, to use her utmost endeavours to reinstate her in her place.

CHAP. II.

Which throws new lights upon Mr. Bale's behaviour, and contains a very improving conversation.

THE two ladies being again seated in their post-chaise, Mrs. Willis kindly applied herself to comfort her fair companion, whose affecting silence, shewed a deeper sense of her new disappointment than any words could express. However, miss Courteney felt in reality lower perturbations and less anxiety in her return, than when she began her journey. So true it is, that when we hope little, we fear little likewise.

She now looked upon her aunt's affection as irrecoverable; miss Woodby's vile insinuations had strengthened her suspicions: Mr. Bale, when he found himself detected, would doubtless account for his behaviour in a manner un ••vourable to her; her unhappy flight had given such a colour to her succeeding actions, as rendered any justification of herself hopeless; and the insidious chaplain might now with case confirm those prejudices he had raised.

In this manner she reasoned herself into a belief that her misfortune was irremediable: despair, as an ingenious writer[†] observes, being that ease to the mind which mortification is to the flesh, Henrietta found some relief in being freed from that vicissitude of hopes and fears which had so long held her mind in the most racking suspence; and, with a kind of gloomy satisfaction, resigned herself to all the bitterness of her fate.

Mrs. Willis, who knew not the peculiarities of lady Meadows's temper, or if she had, would not perhaps have considered, that obstinate people are ever most obstinate in error, thought all things might be set right again, by miss Courteney's giving a candid narrative of what had happened to her since her leaving her; she therefore pressed the young lady to delay writing to her aunt no longer than the next day.

"There are some cases," said Mrs. Willis to her, when she saw her sitting down to write, ‘in which simplicity is the greatest refinement of art; yours is one of them: be as simple and ingenuous as you can in the account you give your aunt, and let the facts speak for themselves.’

Henrietta followed her advice, and related every part of her conduct since she had left her, and the treachery and deceit that had been used towards her, with the utmost plainness and sincerity, and saw that she had made her letter more affecting by its simplicity, than she could have done by the nicest touches of art. Mrs. Willis read it, and approved of it; and it was immediately dispatched to the post.

Scarce was this little affair over, when Mr. Bale sent in his name.

"I like this piece of ceremony," said Mrs. Willis; ‘it looks as if the man was ashamed of what he has done: do you chuse to see him, miss?’

"Oh! no," replied Henrietta; ‘it would be strange indeed if I was willing to see a man whom you suspect of having such shocking designs, and who I am sure has not acted honestly.’

"Well then," said Mrs. Willis, ‘I will go down to him, and hear what he has to say.’

She returned again in less than an hour, smiling. "This young man," said she, ‘does not want sense: what would you say, miss, if I was to tell you that he has persuaded me he has acted very right, and with the best intentions in the world.’

‘I should say that I am less unhappy than I thought I was,’ replied miss Courteney; ‘for surely it is a great misfortune to meet with persons who abuse our confidence and the good opinion we have of them.’

"That misfortune," said Mrs. Willis, ‘will in time become so common, that you will feel it less sensibly than you do now. The only way to avoid being deceived, is to be always upon your guard against deceit.’

"That is to say I must be always suspicious," said Henrietta; ‘that may be a very prudent maxim, but my heart disavows it.’

"Alas! my dear," replied Mrs. Willis, ‘we all enter upon the world with high notions of disinterestedness, friendship, sincerity, and candor: but experience shows us, that these qualities exist not, or among so very few, that it does not fall to the lot of one mortal in a thousand to meet with them in those we contract friendships with. The frequent disappointments we suffer in the search of them, make suspicion grow into a habit of thinking, which if it lessens our enjoyments lessens our inconveniencies likewise.’

"Then I," said miss Courteney, ‘shall be always exposed to inconveniencies; for I am sure I can never bring myself to suspect persons who appear deserving of my good opinion: and indeed I think it is more honourable to be often deceived, than to be always doubting.’

"But it is not so safe," replied Mrs. Willis, smiling: ‘however, my dear, in unexperienced youth like yours this way of thinking is meritorious; the faults of the world can only be learned by a long acquaintance with it, and by suffering from that acquaintance. Those who derive this kind of knowledge from the heart rather than the head, are indeed safe themselves, but dangerous to all others.’

‘But I will keep you no longer in suspense, with regard to Mr. Bale. He has glossed over his behaviour so as to make me appear satisfied with it, which indeed it is necessary I should, if I would not wish to make an enemy of him; and a very powerful one he might be to my husband.’

‘He asked for you as soon as he saw me, and did not seem surprised at the very slight excuse I made for your not seeing him. He expressed great concern for the treatment you had received from his wife; for in her frantic rage it seems she told him all that had passed between you.’

"You find," said he, ‘I did not exaggerate my wife's failing.’

"It is a great misfortune," replied I; ‘but, sir, I think if you had not made a secret of your connections with miss Courteney, Mrs. Bale's jealousy would not have had so plausible an excuse, nor would the young lady have had any reason to complain of you.’

"I should have found it absolutely impossible," said he, ‘to have concerned myself in miss Courteney's affairs, or been of the least use to her, had my wife known any thing of the matter; the very fight of miss Courteney would have roused her suspicions, and have put it out of my power to act either as a friend or guardian by her; and, in her unhappy situation, she had great need of my care and attention.’

"However, sir," replied I, ‘it was certainly ill judged to conceal from miss Courteney, that you was married: what must she think of such a strange conduct?’

"Why, Mrs. Willis," resumed he, ‘I have already told you, that I could not own my marriage to miss Courteney, without letting her into my reasons for not being able to offer her an asylum in my house, during her aunt's displeasure, an offer she had great reason to expect. I was unwilling to expose my wife's foible, and to raise scruples in the young lady's mind, which might prevent her from receiving those little services from me which she had so much need of: I hope you will represent all this to her, and let her know how greatly I am afflicted at what she has suffered.’

‘To be sure I will, replied I; but miss Courteney tells me you have received letters from Mr. Bale, in which he acquaints you that there are some foreign merchants coming to reside in my house; and that she was to be removed for that reason. I surprised her greatly, by saying I had heard nothing of it; and, indeed I am a good deal surprised myself at it.’

"Why, to be plain with you, Mrs. Willis," said the young gentleman, ‘this was only an invention.’

"Indeed!" said I, looking very grave: ‘to be sure you had some good reason for it.’

"Doubtless I had," pursued he, ‘and you yourself shall be judge of my reason.—This is a bad world, Mrs. Willis, a very bad world: nothing but stratagems and designs, fraud and cunning. Our sex, Mrs. Willis, is in a state of war with yours, our arms are sighs and vows, and flattery and protestation, and (as in all other warfares) we fight to destroy.’

"Bless us," interrupted Henrietta, half smiling, "what could this fine preface lead to?"

"I protest," resumed Mrs. Willis laughing, ‘it was with the utmost difficulty I composed my countenance to a look of grave attention; while he uttered all this with a solemn accent, and an air of infinite importance.’

‘Truly sir, replied I, for so young a gentleman you think very gravely of these matters: it is highly commendable in one of your years.’

"Heaven forbid, Mrs. Willis," said he, ‘that all men should be libertines; but in short it was to preserve miss Courteney from falling into the snares of one, that I formed an excuse for sending her into the country.’

"Vile dissembler!" exclaimed miss Courteney again, glowing with indignation; ‘preserve me from falling into the snares of a libertine! I hope my own discretion, without any aid from him, was sufficient to guard me against any snares that a libertine could lay for me.’

"I hope so too," said Mrs. Willis.

Henrietta blushed a little at this expression, which seemed, she thought, to imply a doubt, but would not interrupt Mrs. Willis again.

‘I told you that this gentleman was very artful,’ continued the good woman, ‘as you will be convinced by the story he told.’

"You must know," said he to me, looking extremely wise, and lowering his voice, ‘that when I waited upon miss Courteney at the lodgings she had taken after she left her aunt, I observed a fine gay young man there, who followed me when I went out, and looked at me in a manner that shewed great curiosity and attention. It came into my head that this might be the spark of whom miss Courteney's aunt was apprehensive: I discovered that he lodged in the house with the young lady; and this circumstance I liked by no means. I resolved to remove her immediately, and place her with you: she so readily consented to my proposal that I doubted whether I had not been extremely mistaken in my conjectures concerning this young gentleman; but a day or two after she was settled with you, my spark came to enquire for her at my house: now it was plain that miss Courteney held some correspondence with him, otherwise he could not have known where to come after her.’

‘I happened not to be at home, and the servants told him, that no such person was there. He came several times, and was always answered in the same manner. His enquiries at length reached the ears of my wife; she desired he might be shewn up to her apartment when he came next; and it was from him that she learned miss Courteney was under my care.’

‘To one of her temper it was enough to know that I had the management of a lady's affairs, to make her suspect that I had a more than ordinary interest in the lady herself. But she concealed her thoughts from me: and I, who was wholly ignorant that this gentleman had seen my wife, was only concerned at the connexion there seemed to be between miss Courteney and him; and therefore fixed upon that stratagem, to remove her out of his reach without giving her any suspicions of the cause.’

‘I have since enquired about the gentleman; and I hear that he is a man of quality, and that he is shortly to be married to a great fortune. Judge now whether his designs on miss Courteney could be honourable▪ and whe¦ther I had not reason to act as I did with re¦gard to sending her away?’

"And now, my dear," added Mrs. Willis, smiling, ‘did you ever hear a more plausible tale?’

"I have somewhere read it observed," replied Henrietta, ‘that we are better deceived by having some truth told us than none. Mr. Bale has put this maxim in practice; his tale is plausible, because part of it is true: but his inferences are all false; and their cause lies too deep for me to discover it.’

She then related succinctly all that had passed in the house of Mrs. Eccles, and that she had earnestly intreated Mr. Bale to dispose of her elsewhere, being resolved, after the affront that had been offered to her, to remain there no longer. She added, that the young lord having hinted his suspicions that Mr. Bale was her lover, she thought herself obliged to tell him his name, and explain the nature of his connexions with her, that she might not, by going away with a person unknown, leave room for calumny to slander her.

Mrs. Willis was charmed with this candid account of her conduct, which overthrew all Mr. Bale's insinuations. She embraced her with great tenderness. ‘All will soon be set right (said she) your aunt will receive you with redoubled affection.’ Miss Courteney sighed; but having already taken her resolution, she was prepared for whatever events might happen.

CHAP. III.

Which we are afraid will give some of our readers a mean opinion of our heroine's understanding.

TWO days afterwards a letter was brought by the post for miss Courteney; the direction was in her aunt's hand: she opened it with some trepidation, and found it as follows:

HENRIETTA,

FOR niece I cannot, after what has happened, call you— If you had not, by the highest imprudence that any young woman could be guilty of, given too much •••our for the shocking censures that are cast on you, I might perhaps have been deceived by your plausible account of things. I am sorry to find you have acquired so much art, it is but too sure a proof that you are less innocent; yet it would be easy for me to take to pieces every part of your defence, and shew you the absurdity of it: but this is needless; for, whether you are innocent or guilty, you have greatly wounded your reputation, and I can no longer with honour consider you or treat you as my niece.

There is but one way left by which you can retrieve your fame and my affection; motives which ought to have some weight with you, but infinitely less than the desire of securing your salvation.

I hoped and believed your conversion was near completed, and doubtless it would have been, had not your passions intervened.

If you will retire to a convent, and put yourself into a way of being instructed in the true religion, I will pay your pension largely; and the day that sees you reunited to the faith, shall see you restored to my fondest affection, and made sole heiress to my whole estate. Consider well before you determine; and know, that upon any other terms than these, you must not hope for farther notice from me.

F. MEADOWS.

Although several parts of this letter were extremely shocking both to the delicacy and pride of Henrietta, yet the shining bribe that was offered her to procure her apostasy, made a large compensation. She had now an opportunity given her of making a worthy sacrifice to the religion she believed and professed; a circumstance that exalted her in her own opinion: for her self-love had been deeply wounded by the humiliations she had undergone; and as great delicacy always suffers most, so it enjoys most from its own reflection.

She was not free from a little enthusiasm that told her it was glorious to suffer in the cause of religion, nor so disinterested as not to feel great pleasure in the thought of being able to free her moral character from injurious suspicions, by so firm an attachment to her religious principles.

Her impatience to answer her aunt's letter would not allow her time to communicate to Mrs. Willis the contents of it: but as soon a• she had done writing, she sent for the goo• woman, and put lady Meadows's letter into he• hands, with such an air of conscious satisfa•¦tion, as persuaded her the so much desired ••¦conciliation was effected; but when upon rea•¦ing the letter, she found her mistake, she thr•• it down, and, in a melancholy accent, and a look that expressed the most anxious curiosity, asked her how she had resolved?

"Read this," said Henrietta, giving her the letter she had written; I am sure you will not "disapprove of what I have done." Mrs. Willis read it eagerly, and found it as follows:

MADAM,

IT is a great grief to me to find that your affection is irrecoverable, for at the price you have set upon it, I must ever deem it so. If my defence seems absurd, madam, it is because truth is too weak to combat prejudice: I leave it to time and my future conduct to clear my innocence, and am resolved never to give a confirmation to those aspersions which are cast on my character, by sacrificing my religion to my interest.

That poverty, which happily is become my choice, will be my best vindication; and if it affords me no other blessing but that of a good conscience, it will bestow on me the highest that is attainable in this life, and which will enable me to bear chearfully all the misfortunes that may befal me; among which I shall always look upon the loss of your esteem as the greatest. I am, madam, with all due gratitude and respect, your obliged and very humble servant,

HENRIETTA COURTENEY.

‘I must approve, nay admire your resolution, miss,’ said Mrs. Willis, returning the letter; ‘and if you persist in it, you will appear to me a wonder.’

"Do you doubt my persisting in it?" replied Henrietta.

"When I consider," said Mrs. Willis, ‘your birth, your youth, your beauty, and the expectations you have been encouraged to entertain, I know it must cost you a great deal to throw away the advantages that are offered you, and which possibly you might secure by temporising at least.’

"Dissimulation," interrupted Henrietta, ‘on any occasion, is mean and scandalous; but in matters of religion it is surely a heinous crime; and I hope I am far enough from committing it; but I own I have many motives to stimulate my resolution.’

‘My own imprudence, and the treachery of others, have given a wound to my reputation, which a voluntary poverty can only repair. In this licentious age, she, who with youth and even the slightest advantages of person, dares to be poor, deserves surely to be thought virtuous; and I shall ever acknowledge the bounty of Providence, that, amidst the unjust censures which have been cast on me, has made an humble lot my choice.’

"I am satisfied," interrupted Mrs. Willis: ‘reason, I see, has a greater share in your so lately formed resolution, than the zeal of enthusiasm, or the suggestions of vanity; and you may believe me a true friend to your fame, when I heartily congratulate you on your present situation. And now, my dear miss, suffer me to assure you of my tenderest friendship; a friendship which cannot be contented with bare professions, and insists upon your putting it to some trial.’

‘Tell me how I can serve you? O! that you would honour me so far as to let this house be your asylum till fortune does justice to your merit. Condescend to live with me, my dear miss, and share my little income.’

"You are very kind, dear Mrs. Willis," replied Henrietta; ‘but my circumstances will not permit me to continue your boarder, and no distress shall oblige me to be burthensome to a friend. I have already resolved how to dispose of myself, and, in the scheme I have formed, I shall need your assistance.’

"Tell me, my dear," cried Mrs. Willis, eagerly, "how I can be of any use to you?"

"You must," replied Henrietta, blushing a little: ‘you must get me a service, my dear Mrs. Willis.’

"A service!" exclaimed the good woman.

"I am very well qualified," resumed Henrietta, recovering from her first confusion, and smiling, ‘to wait upon a woman of fashion: for my mother gave me a useful as well as genteel education; and this station will be at once private enough to secure me from disagreeable accidents, and publick enough to make my conduct acquit or condemn me.’

"I will not," added she, observing Mrs. Willis continued silent, ‘offer myself to any place by my own name; that would look like an insult upon my great relations, and be perhaps an obstruction to my success. It is sufficient for me, that whenever I am discovered, it may be in circumstances at which they, not I, need be ashamed.’

‘When I first heard you mention this scheme,’ said Mrs. Willis, ‘I thought I could never be brought to approve it; but a little reflection has convinced me that it may have good consequences. You cannot be long concealed; that graceful form will soon draw notice upon you. Whenever you are known to be in a station so unworthy your birth and merit, the pride of your relations will be rouzed. How glorious then will this humiliation be for you! Methinks I see their confusion for their neglect of you, and their eagerness to repair it, by restoring you to the rank you was born in— Oh! my dear, you will certainly be happy yet, I am sure you will.’

Henrietta smiled a little at the good woman's sanguine expectations; but in reality, the same thoughts had made a great impression upon her, and contributed, more than she imagined, to allay the uneasiness she felt at being reduced to take such a step. By degrees she formed in her own mind so romantick a scene, that she grew impatient to enter upon it, and again intreated the assistance of Mrs. Willis.

The good woman telling her that a cousin of her husband's was a sack-maker, and in great vogue at the court end of the town, it was agreed that she should go to her, and engage her good offices towards recommending the young lady to a place; it being very likely that among her customers, who were mostly women of quality, she might hear of one that would suit her.

CHAP. IV.

Which contains very trifling matters.

MRS. Willis succeeded beyond her hopes; the mantua-maker had been desired by a lady she worked for, to look out for a genteel young person to serve her in the quality of her woman; and promised her cousin, that she would mention her friend to the lady the next day, being to wait on her with some cloaths that were to be tried on. She added, that the lady was a citizen, but had an immense fortune, and that her place was certainly a very good one.

Henrietta seemed very well pleased with her landlady's success, though she was not free from some uneasy perturbations at the thoughts of the condition she was so soon to enter upon.

Mrs. Measure did not fail to visit her cousin the next day. ‘Well (said she) I have done the young gentlewoman's business: she has nothing to do but to wait upon miss Cordwain; and, if she likes her figure, she will hire her directly.’

"Why, pray," replied Mrs. Willis, ‘what kind of figure will best please this lady?’

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Measure, ‘miss Cordwain's woman must be very genteel, and look like a gentlewoman; the richer she is dressed too, when she goes to wait on her, the better. Every thing about miss Cordwain must be magnificent. Well,’ pursued she, laughing, and taking a pinch of snuff, which produced several little pauses in her discourse, ‘it is really surprising to see these little cits, how they mimick people of quality—They must be so extravagantly in the fashion—I vow and protest the negligee I tried on miss Cordwain to-day, had a train three yards and a half long.’

Henrietta that moment entering the room, Mrs. Willis, seeing her cousin was surprised at her appearance, said, this is the young gentlewoman who wants a place.

The mantua-maker, upon this information, resumed her familiar look and manner; and, throwing herself again upon her chair, took a full survey of the young lady, who thanked her, with some hesitation, and a blush that crimsoned over her face, for the service she had done her.

"I have just been telling my cousin," said Mrs. Measure, ‘that miss Cordwain, the lady I have recommended you to, ma'am, is very hard to be pleased. Her woman must look like a lady forsooth: she has refused three that went to see her place; one, because she had a red hand; it looked, she said, as if the creature had stood at a wash-tub; another, because she went to be hired in a linen gown; and the third, because she had lived with nobody of higher rank than a baronet's wife— But I am sure she can have no objection to you, ma'am, unless perhaps she may think you too handsome. Do you take snuff, ma'am?’ offering her box, which Henrietta civilly declined.

"But dear ma'am," pursued the mantua-maker, ‘who makes your cloaths? I never saw any thing so frightful as the slope of that ruffle, then such a horrid sleeve: it is well, you are naturally genteel.’

Henrietta slightly bowed in return for this compliment; and asked her, at what hour it would be proper to wait upon miss Cordwain?

"About one o'clock in the forenoon," replied Mrs. Measure, ‘that's her breakfast time. Her father, honest man, is in his warehouse before six. But this is his only daughter; and he expects she will be a duchess, or countess at least— She has fifty thousand pounds.’

"Where does the lady live?" asked Henrietta.

"Here in one of your filthy lanes," replied the mantua-maker; ‘I forget the name of it, but every body knows Mr. Cordwain the packer.’

She then rose up, made one of her best courtesies, and hurried into a chair that was waiting for her; for this polite mantua-maker was above visiting her customers in a hackney coach: and this insolence was such a proof of her excellence in her business, that few ever scrupled to pay for it.

CHAP. V.

Which shews Henrietta in a new situation.

HEnrietta having summoned all her resolution, that she might acquit herself with propriety of the task she had undertaken, prepared the next day to wait upon miss Cordwain. She remembered the mantua-maker's hint, and therefore avoided any studied simplicity in her dress; but no apparel, however mean, could have hid that noble air, or disguised that native elegance, so conspicuous throughout her whole person.

As soon as she was ready, she stepped in to Mrs. Willis's parlour, and, while a coach was sent for, assumed a more than ordinary chearfulness in her discourse with the good woman; for she was extremely desirous of concealing the emotions she felt upon this mortifying occasion, and affected a most heroick indifference, while inly she suffered all that a mind, de••cate and sensible as her's, could feel.

Mrs. Willis followed her to the door with tears in her eyes. The young lady stepped into the coach, smiled a farewel, and ordered the coachman to drive to Mr. Cordwain's. A few minutes brought her to the house; and the servant, of whom she enquired if miss Cordwain was at home, having shewn her into a parlour, bowed and withdrew.

Miss Cordwain being informed that a lady enquired for her, ordered her admittance; and the same servant returning, conducted Henrietta to her dressing-room.

Miss Cordwain, who was still lingering over her tea-table with a female acquaintance, rose up at Henrietta's graceful entrance, and, receiving her with a low courtesy, offered her an arm-chair at the upper-end of the room.

Henrietta, conscious of the error she had committed in not making use of the mantua-maker's name before, blushed a little at this reception, which was not suitable to the character she was to appear in, and, declining the chair; "Mrs. Measure, madam," said she. She could utter no more than those two words; but they were sufficient to give miss Cordwain to understand her business.

The haughty citizen was excessively shocked to find she had been betrayed by the figure of Henrietta into so improper an instance of respect; and that the person she took for a lady of distinction was the young woman who had been recommended to her service, thought to recover the dignity which she conceived she had lost from this mistake, by assuming an imperious air and an insolent accent.

"Who did you live with last?" said she to Henrietta, throwing herself again into her chair, and glancing her over with a supercilious eye; ‘I hope it was with a woman of quality: you will not do for me, I can tell you, if you have not been used to attend upon persons of rank.’

Henrietta, notwithstanding the confusion she was under at acting so strange a part, could not help being diverted with the pride of this daughter of trade.

"I am afraid, madam," said she, ‘I shall not be worthy of your place; for I never lived in the service of any woman of quality, nor indeed in any other.’

"What you are a gentlewoman, I suppose," interrupted miss Cordwain, drawling out the word gentlewoman; ‘and now I remember Measure told me you had never been in service. Well, that does not signify: I have no objection to your having been a gentlewoman; you may be the better servant for what I know. For to say the truth,’ said she, addressing herself to her companion, ‘those sort of poor gentlewomen, when they are reduced, as they call it, to wait upon us, who could buy their whole generation, often know their distance better, and are more humble than such as have been bred to service.’

Oh!" said the other lady, with an applauding smile, ‘ever while you live, madam, chuse a gentlewoman for your maid. There is alderman Fig the grocer's lady: I have heard He often declare she never was so well served as when colonel Noble's daughter waited on her. The colonel was killed in the last war; and, as those folks you know have seldom any thing to leave their families, his fine gay daughters were obliged to go to service after his death, and did very well; but some body left them ten thousand pounds a piece, and spoiled two excellent servants, by making them gentlewomen again.’

"Nay, if they had fortunes left them," replied miss Cordwain, "why you know, then, "they had a right to be called gentlewomen.

"Well, child," pursued she, turning to Henrietta, ‘as I told you before I have no objection to your having been a gentlewoman; for I am resolved never to have any other to wait on me: I shall take you upon Measure's recommendation, and the sooner you come the better.’

Henrietta, who had really enjoyed the conversation that had passed between these two ladies, told her that she would come whenever she pleased; and it being agreed she should come the following day, that she might dress her new lady for a city-feast, she courtesied profoundly low, and withdrew.

Henrietta, whose imagination was naturally lively, and not wholly free from those romantic notions which persons of her age readily admit, began to consider her transformation from the niece of lady Meadows, and a presumptive heiress, into the waiting-maid of a cit, as one of those caprices of fate which never fail to produce surprising effects. She could not help fancying herself the future heroine of some affecting tale, whose life would be varied with surprising vicissitudes of fortune; and that she would at last be raised to a rank as much above her hopes, as the station she was now entering upon was below all that her fears had ever suggested.

But these reflections were succeeded by others more reasonable, and which indeed afforded her a more solid satisfaction: she was going to refute the censures of an injurious world; to make that innocence which had been so vilely traduced manifest, in her chearful submission to poverty and servitude, at a time when a shining fortune was offered to purchase a change in her religious principles, and when perhaps a little dissimulation, or a temporary compliance with her aunt's proposals, might restore her to a rank in life suitable to her birth.

The satisfaction she felt from these pleasing ideas, diffused such a serenity over her fair face, as agreeably surprised Mrs. Willis, who had waited her return with impatience.

Henrietta repeated to her the dialogue that had passed between the two ladies with so much humour, and marked the pride of wealth, and aukward affectation of grandeur and distinction, in these opulent heiresses to the laborious gains of sordid thrift, and perhaps successful knavery, with such delicate strokes of satire as convinced Mrs. Willis she would not be an injudicious observer of the manners of those whom it might be her lot to associate with, nor pass through this new scene of life, without drawing improvement from it.

The good woman was grieved to find that she must lose her so soon; but, being fully persuaded that this humiliating step would terminate in something happy for her fair friend, she disposed herself to part with her chearfully.

It was agreed between them, that the elder Mr. Bale should not be made acquainted with any part of his son's behaviour with regard to Henrietta, till his return from Holland, when the whole affair might be laid candidly before him; and that the younger should be told, that she was gone into service; but where, he was not to be informed.

The next day Henrietta, after taking a tender farewel of Mrs. Willis, repaired to her new dwelling. Miss Cordwain was just gone out to make some little purchases for the evening; and Henrietta, being directed to go into her lady's dressing-room, was met by her predecessor, who had lingered in the house to have an opportunity of speaking to her, that, according to the general custom of servants, she might prejudice her against her new mistress.

From this girl, who was not sparing in her invectives, she learned that miss Cordwain's temper, which was not naturally good, was extremely sowered of late by a disappointment in love; that the packer, her father, had been treating with a certain nobleman for a ma••h between her and the nobleman's eldest son; but that it had been broke off, because the citizen had refused to lay down more than thirty thousand pounds with his daughter, and the nobleman insisted upon forty.

This little piece of history was followed by a thousand other family anecdotes; to all which Henrietta listened in silence, and was not sorry that the censorious waiting-woman, whose tongue had, during a whole hour, run with surprising volubility, was at length silenced by the arrival of miss Cordwain; whose voice when she heard on the stairs, she took a hasty leave, and retreated thro' a different door from that which the lady entered.

Miss Cordwain, as soon as she saw Henrietta, slightly inclined her head, in return to her respectful courtesy; and throwing some millenary trifles upon her toilet, she sat down to her glass, and ordered her new woman to comb her hair, shewing a fretful impatience at her hairdresser's long delay; for she was to meet her company at nine o'clock, and it was now almost four: so that she had good reason to fear she should hardly have time enough to dress.

While Henrietta was acquitting herself handily enough of this task, her lady took up a col •ection of songs that lay upon her table, that she might improve her mind while her body was •dorning; and after reading intently a few moments to herself, she hastily turned over the leaves to a place that was doubled down, and began to read aloud a most piteous complaint of a despairing nymph, whose lover had forsaken her for another: she concluded this doleful ditty with a deep sigh; and repeating the burden of it, for men are as false as the changeable wind, "Henrietta," said she, ‘was you ever in love?’

Our fair heroine, who understood this question as a prelude to a confidence from her mistress, was at some loss how to answer it, when she was relieved from her perplexity by the arrival of monsieur Finesse, the French hair-cutter.

Miss Cordwain, immediately dropping her tender languishments, assumed a supercilious air; and, after haughtily interrogating the ingenious artist for not coming sooner, submitted her tresses to his forming hands, a settled gloom all the time clouding her face: for whether it was that her glass, on which her eyes were intently fixed, told her some unpleasing truths, or that her gentle bosom heaved with some secret discontent, but it is certain that every thing displeased her; nor could all Henrietta's obliging attention to the adorning her person draw a smile of approbation from her.

After five hours labour, however, the lady was completely dressed. Her father, who had not seen her since dinner, which she had swallowed in haste, having so much business on her hands, now entered the room; and liking the shewy appearance she made, "Why, Jenny," said he, "you are as fine as a duchess."

"As fine as a duchess," repeated she, pouting; "and why not?"

"Very true, girl," replied the father, ‘thou hast that which can make duchesses: but, Jenny, I have something to say to thee in private; so send your waiting-maid away.’

Henrietta immediately retired into her mistress's bedchamber; which being only separated from the dressing-room by a slight partition of wainscot, she could not avoid hearing every thing that passed.

‘I have had a proposal made me this afternoon,’ resumed the father, ‘and I came to acquaint you with it. Mr. Traffick has asked you in marriage; there's immense riches for you, girl: what say you?’

"Sure, papa," cried miss Cordwain hastily, ‘you have not given him any encouragement, have you? A fine match, indeed! so I must be called plain Mrs. Traffick all my days, and there's miss Fig married to a viscount, and has coronets upon her coach: three weeks ago, miss Haggle, the broker's daughter, became a countess; and but this very morning I heard that the duke of Hazard is courting miss Steam, our neighbour the soapboiler's niece, and she has but twenty thousand pounds.—I can't bear it; so, I can't,’ pursued miss Cordwain, bursting into tears, ‘to see all my comrades at Hackney boarding-school married to right honourables, and I am not likely to be even a paltry baronet's wife.’

Here her tears and sobs suppressed any farther utterance, and had such an effect upon the fond father, that he also was ready to cry.

"Don't break my heart, Jenny," said he, half sobbing; ‘you know it is death to me to see you fret and grieve yourself: are you not my only child? is it not for you that I have been toiling and labouring for these forty years, up early and down late, scraping all I can together, gaining much and spending little, and all to make you a peeress of Great Britain, and a peeress you shall be; so don't cry, my girl, and spoil your complexion; neither neighbour Fig, nor neighbour Haggle's daughter, shall be greater than you. You shall be a countess, Jenny, will that content you? I will lay down the odd ten thousand, that the earl of — and I quarrelled about, and you shall have his son.’

"I am obliged to you, papa," said miss Cordwain; "but—"

"Nay," interrupted the father, ‘I find nothing will please you: you were crying just now, because you were not a countess; and when I tell you you that I will part with another ten thousand pounds, to make you easy, you come with your buts.’

"Why, suppose I am a countess," replied miss Cordwain, ‘will not miss Steam be a duchess, and take place of me? I can never endure that.’

"What signifies her taking place of you," said her father, ‘the duke's estate is not half so good as the earl of —; besides, you refused a duke, you know, and you have often told me that you like lord B— better than any man in the world, and how have you pined since the match was broke off!’

"Well, I confess," replied miss, ‘that I do like my lord B—, and would rather marry him than any duke in the land, provided that little odious thing, miss Steam, did not marry above me: she to be called her grace at every word, while I am only lady B—; I should die with vexation.’

"Since it is so," said the father, ‘I shall lay aside my design, and make no advances to the earl.’

‘And then his son will marry some body else,’ cried miss Cordwain.

"What would the girl be at?" interrupted the good man, with some heat; ‘if you won't have him, need you care who has.’

Miss Cordwain now burst into a flood of tears: she liked lord B—, but she could not bear the thoughts of miss Steam's being in a rank above her; and love and envy raised such tumults in her breast, as made her seek a relief in tears.

"I wish you knew your own mind, girl," said the father half angry, and half concerned at her grief.

"I know my own mind well enough," replied miss sullenly: ‘I would marry lord B—, and I would not have that proud 〈◊〉 be a duchess.’

"Take my word for it," said the father, ‘she will never be duchess of Hazard; I know her fortune is not sufficient to ch••r the duke's estate of two mortgages that have almost swallowed it up.’

"Nay, then," interrupted miss Cordwain, who eagerly admitted an argument that set her mind at ease, ‘I am sure the duke will not have her; for she is so ugly you know, papa, that nothing could charm him but her riches.’

"Well," said the father, smiling with pleasure, to see her in good humour again, ‘I am to meet a friend of the earl's to-night; shall this affair be brought on again?’

"As you please, papa," said miss Cordwain, courtesying; ‘you know it is my duty to be obedient.’

"Aye," said the good man, kissing her, ‘you have always been one of the most dutiful children in the world; and I will make thee a lady, though I don't leave myself a shilling.’ With this wise declaration he quitted the room, leaving his daughter in high spirits; who, after she had called her maid to adjust whatever might be amiss in her dress, and taken a full survey of herself in the glass, stepped into her coach, with the air of a citizen who had a fortune of forty thousand pounds.

CHAP. VI.

Contains an incident which the sagacious reader has probably foreseen.

HEnrietta, when she was left alone, found sufficient matter for reflection in the sentiments and behaviour of this wealthy tradesman and his daughter; and as it was now become necessary for her own peace of mind to reconcile herself to the situation that fortune had placed her in, she endeavoured to extract useful lessons from every scene that passed under her observation.

Why have I lamented my poverty? said she to herself; riches neither give understanding to the mind, nor elegance to the person. How mean is miss Cordwain with forty thousand pounds! what narrow notions! what selfish passions! how ignorant, how contemptible!— All the advantages her large fortune procures her, is a title and a coronet: honours how despicable, when such as miss Cordwain wear them!

Let me thank Heaven then, that made my father a younger brother; that he inherited the virtues and elevated sentiments of his noble ancestors, and wanted that allurement to upstart wealth, which might have given me a miss Cordwain for a mother, and have deprived me of those generous precepts, and those bright examples, by which I have been taught to think poverty a less evil than dishonour; and that a peaceful conscience is cheaply purchased with the loss of every worldly advantage.

These were her reflections, as she afterwards declared to her friend. It is not therefore surprising that with such sentiments, our fair heroine found herself tranquil in her humble station, and dignified misfortune by her graceful resignation to it.

If the woman she served had had judgment enough to distinguish merit, and goodness enough to love it, Henrietta must have engaged her attention and her kindness: but little minds like nothing but what resembles themselves.

Miss Cordwain sometimes condescended to enter into a conversation with her woman, but was quickly disgusted with the difference of their notions; and what she could not comprehend, she either despised as folly, or suspected as artifice.

They were upon these terms when Mr. Cordwain acquainted his daughter, that they were invited to spend a week at the earl of —'s country-seat; for the contested ten thousand pounds being granted by the citizen, the treaty of marriage was renewed; and this visit was proposed in order to bring the young people together again with some kind of decorum.

Miss Cordwain, in high spirits, gave her woman notice to make preparations for this little journey; which done, Henrietta went to take leave of her faithful Mrs. Willis.

"What a triumph would mine be," said she to her friend, ‘if any of my relations should happen to be at this nobleman's seat▪ and behold me in the character of miss Cordwain's servant!’

"You have done right, my dear," replied Mrs. Willis, ‘to call it a triumph; for so indeed it would be, the triumph of virtue over pride and prejudice.’

The good woman informed her, that her guardian was in a very ill state of health, and was gone to Montpelier, in consequence of his physician's advice: that the young man had been there to wait upon her; and that when he heard of the resolution she had taken, he affected to think himself extremely injured by her conduct, as it shewed the utmost contempt of his advice and friendship; but it was easy to perceive, added Mrs. Willis, that there was more grief than anger in the reproaches he threw out against you upon this occasion. He seemed much mortified at my refusing to tell him where you was, but owned that his wife made him very uneasy upon your account; and when I urged that as an argument against the propriety of your seeing him, his silence acknowledged me in the right.

Henrietta was sensibly affected with the news of her guardian's illness; and, since his return was now uncertain, she resolved to write to him immediately, and give him an account of all that had happened to her since he went abroad, fearing that unless she explained the reasons of her conduct, he might be prejudiced against her by her aunt's representations of it. She would not give him any disquiet, by mentioning his son's behaviour, but left that to be unravell'd by time.

Mrs. Willis having promised to get this letter safely transmitted to Mr. Bale, Henrietta took a tender leave of her, and returned home.

The next morning very early, the coach and six was at the door; miss Cordwain impatiently stepped in, for she thought every moment an age till she saw her noble lover again. Her face dressed in smiles of pleasing expectation, and her heart exulting with the consciousness of her own worth, which, by her father's concession of the disputed thousands, had received such a considerable addition: but being, as I have before observed, not very happy in the frame of her temper, this sun-shine of satisfaction was soon clouded at being obliged to wait a few minutes for her father, whose slowness but ill suited with her eager impatience.

Indeed the wary citizen, having wisely considered that they had a journey to perform of at least twenty miles, was busied in packing up some necessary refreshments, that they might not be famished by the way. For this purpose he had caused a neat's tongue, a cake of ginger-bread, two or three pounds of almonds and raisins, and a bottle of sack, to be provided; and he himself brought the basket in which they were deposited to the coach, directing Henrietta to get in first, that he might place it safely in her lap; which done, he took his seat next his daughter, and ordered the coachman to drive.

Miss Cordwain's ill humour insensibly wearing off, they pursued their journey with great satisfaction, not having baited above three or four times on the road.

At length the young lady's eyes were delighted with the prospect of the magnificent villa, which she expected one day to be mistress of; but her attention was soon called off that object by the presence of her lover, who, being just returned from a little excursion on horseback, alighted as soon as he saw the coach stop, and advanced to hand his mistress out.

The young lord presented his hand to miss Cordwain with an air of forced gallantry; but happening to glance his eyes towards Henrietta, he started back in great surprise.

Miss Cordwain, vexed at the attention with which he gazed upon her woman, jumped out of the coach, before he had sufficiently recovered himself to be able to offer her again the hand, which, in his confusion, he had withdrawn.

The lady having on a capuchin, which she had wore during the journey, untied it, and, tossing it into the coach to Henrietta, bid her, in an imperious tone, to take care of it.

This action and these words gave the young nobleman to understand that our beauteous heroine was actually the servant of miss Cordwain: a circumstance which furnished him with new matter for wonder; and indeed this encounter gave him so much perplexity, and so entirely engrossed his thoughts, that the old tradesman (who enquired after my good lord and my good lady's health, with as many bows and scrapes as would have served any trader to express his acknowledgment to a customer whom he had just imposed upon) was obliged to repeat his questions several times before he could procure an answer.

As for Henrietta, she had, upon the first fight of this young nobleman, whom she immediately knew to be the same person who lodged at Mrs. Eccles's, been under some confusion, left he should accost her as an acquaintance before the lady on whom she attended; but observing that from miss Cordwain's behaviour, he understood her situation, and took no further notice of her than by a side glance, which he gave her, full of passionate concern, she was relieved from her fears, and, far from being discomposed at the character she appeared in, she acquitted herself of the little duties of her station with the most graceful ease; gave her lady her fan, received her commands, and, with a little French trunk in her hand that contained some laces and linen, followed her to the house at a respectful distance.

Lord B—'s emotions at this unexpected meeting with Henrietta, having now in some degree subsided, he entertained his mistress as they walked with his usual vivacity and politeness, but could not help often turning to snatch a look of her fair attendant, whose charms in that humble station, a station so unworthy of her birth and shining merit, acquired a pathetick power that melted him to a tenderness he had never known before.

He conducted the lady and her father to the apartment of the countess his mother; and, taking the first opportunity to leave them, retired to his own, that he might be at liberty to reflect upon his adventure.

To know that the woman, whom all his most diligent enquiries for so many weeks could never discover, was in the same house with him, was a circumstance that afforded him infinite satisfaction; but he saw no probability of turning this circumstance to the advantage of his designs upon her. For, with what face could he plead his passion to one of her delicacy, while he was publickly addressing another?

The servile condition he saw her in was a bar to his hopes. She who, with such uncommon attractions, could resolve to be poor, must needs be incorruptible. What allurement could riches throw out for a woman, who knew no other pride but the pride of virtue?

He could not hope to make an impression upon her heart by the disguise of honourable love. She must needs know the terms he was upon with miss Cordwain; and was afraid that she already despised him for the meanness of such a choice.

It was indeed still in his power to throw such obstacles in the way of this match, as to defer, if not break it entirely, but he could not resolve to make such a sacrifice to love; he would have married Henrietta with 〈◊〉 miss Cordwain's fortune, and was amazed at the violence of his passion, when he considered the prodigious disproportion between twenty and forty thousand pounds— Yet most sincerely did he wish his generosity could have been put to this trial; and, in the violence of his gri•• at the apparent impossibility that this should ever happen, a thousand times did he curse the malevolence of fate, that united so many virtues and graces in one lovely woman, and denied her wealth; which however, by his preference of miss Cordwain, he tacitly acknowledged was worth them all.

A whole hour's labour of thought and reflection, left lord B—'s mind in the same state of anxious doubt and solicitude it was in when he first entered upon this examination of his own heart; and all he could be certain of, in this confusion of ideas and opposing sentiments, was, that the unexpected sight of miss Courteney had charmed him more than ever; and following the impulse of his passion, without knowing whither it would conduct him, or what it would terminate in, he anxiously lay in wait for some opportunity of speaking to her in private, which he found when he least expected it.

CHAP. VII.

In which our heroine again appears very foolish.

MEAN time our lovely heroine, who had been received by the countess's woman with prodigious ceremony, and had, during a whole hour, listened with smiling attention to all the impertinences she uttered, was at length relieved from the fatigue of such a conversation, and, with a profusion of compliments, conducted to a chamber contiguous to that of her mistress. As soon as she was left alone, she began to consider how she should extricate herself from the difficulties her unexpected meeting with lord B— had involved her in.

Her delicacy was shocked at the thoughts of remaining in the house with a man who had made an attempt upon her honour, especially in the situation she now was; a situation that would seem to invite his future attacks: and, though he might well impute their meeting to the fantastick effects of chance, yet he would not fail to construe her stay into a tacit encouragement of that passion he had professed for her at parting, the dishonourable purport of which was evident from the engagements he had entered into with miss Cordwain.

She reflected also on the censures under which her character laboured at present, and was justly apprehensive, that when this part of her story was known, the malicious world would not fail to insinuate that she threw herself into lord B—'s way, and the inferences that would be drawn from such a supposed conduct, must needs be highly disadvantageous to her.

But, on the other hand, how could she quit miss Cordwain's service so abruptly, without giving occasion for strange conjectures, and setting the tongue of malice loose to assign reasons for her behaviour, very different from the truth?

However, the inconveniencies, which might attend this step, were light, compared with those she foresaw from exposing herself voluntarily to the pursuits of a young libertine, whose eyes in this last interview had spoke too plainly to leave her in doubt of his sentiments.

She therefore resolved to go away the next day; and, as soon as she was summoned to the toilet, acquainted miss Cordwain with her intention.

Henrietta was a scrupulous observer of truth, and would not on this occasion violate it, by forming any plausible excuse for her sudden determination; so that miss Cordwain, in whose breast the stings of jealousy had been rouzed by the passionate glances lord B— had darted at her maid, began to entertain strange suspicions from so unexpected an overture; and, in a peremptory tone, demanded to know her reasons for quitting her service in such a manner.

Henrietta, with great sweetness, assured her that she did not desire to be dismissed in consequence of any discontent, but that the necessity of her affairs obliged her to return immediately to town.

"Your affairs!" said miss Cordwain, with a haughty sneer; ‘I vow it is mighty pretty to hear servants talk of their affairs, as if they really had any concerns of more consequence than the duty they owe their principals. I wonder you don't tell me you have half a dozen engagements in town,’ pursued she, laughing aloud; ‘such a speech would become you mightily: but prithee, go, creature; pack up your rags in a sheet of brown paper, and take yourself away. I suppose you have found out a new method of living, less mortifying to your pride of beggarly gentility tha• waiting upon a woman of fortune; and I doubt not but you will be shortly seen flaunting it in publick places with a flimsy sack, a painted face, and all the trappings of your trade.’

To this coarse abuse Henrietta listened in silence, beholding her imperious mistress all the time with such a calm, but steady eye, as called up a blush in those cheeks which had been before overspread with a livid paleness.

Not that she felt any remorse for the reproaches she had uttered, or was ashamed of her indecent transports, but Henrietta's soft composure, the dignity of her silence, and the energetick expression in her eyes, struck a kind of awe into her mean-soul'd adversary; and, inly raging at the inferiority she was conscious of, she commanded her to be gone from her presence.

Henrietta instantly obeyed, and, meeting the countess's woman as she went out of the room, she begged her to send a servant to the nearest inn to hire a post-chaise for her, being resolved to return to London that very day.

This well-bred Abigail expressed great concern that she was so soon to lose the honour of her company; and asked, with an appearance of anxiety, if she was not to return again?

Henrietta replied in the negative, at which the other seemed wonderfully surprised, though she was not ignorant of all that had passed between Henrietta and her lady; for, hearing miss Cordwain's voice very loud, she had applied her ear to the key-hole, and needed no further information.

Our fair heroine having evaded the artful questions of this prying woman, and discouraged her reflections on her own lady, whom, in her general invective against the pride and caprice of mistresses, she did not sp•re, told her, she would have the pleasure of viewing the fine gardens that belonged to the house, before she went away; and Mrs. Supple promised to join her, as soon as she had executed the commission she was charged with.

Henrietta accordingly repaired to the gardens, full of reflections upon the scene that had lately passed. She entered a little covered alley that led to a grotto, which she had an inclination to take a view of; when, hearing the sound of steps behind her, she looked back, supposing it was Mrs. Supple; but was not a little surprised to find it was lord B—, who, seeing her cross the terrace from his chamber-window, had followed her thither.

Henrietta, rightly judging that this encounter was not meerly accidental, turned her steps from the grotto, and struck into a less private walk. Lord B—, perceiving her intention, crossed immediately and met her, bowing profoundly low, and, with an air as respectful as if he was accosting a duchess, enquired after her health.

Henrietta, not at all flattered by this instance of respect, which he, by whom it was paid, considered as an act of supererogation, and that it would affect her accordingly, returned his compliment with the most graceful ease; and, smiling, told him, he must not now consider her as miss Courteney, but the servant of miss Cordwain.

"O that horrid appellation!" cried he; ‘What violence did I not do myself to behave to you as I did this morning! But tell me, for Heaven's sake, madam, what has occasioned this transformation?’

"My aunt's continued displeasure," replied Henrietta; ‘your lordship has perhaps heard what circumstances my father died in: the station therefore in which you see me, ought not to be called a transformation; it is what I was born to, since I was born in indigence.’

"I cannot bear to hear you talk thus," interrupted lord B—; ‘how could you think of subjecting yourself to a condition so unworthy of you, when you knew there was a man in the world that would have died to serve you!’

"I am not of a temper," said Henrietta, ‘to be easy under great obligations; and servitude is, in my opinion, less shocking than dependence.’

"Why, do you talk of obligations," said lord B—: ‘love knows no property; could you doubt that my fortune would be at your command. Suffer me, I conjure you,’ pursued he, ‘to snatch you from this unworthy situation; can riches be better employed, than in supporting her I love?’

"My lord," interrupted Henrietta, her face glowing with indignation, ‘this is an insult I could not have expected from one of your rank and politeness: I am fallen very low, indeed, when a man, who is upon the point of marriage with another, d••es ••lk to me of love.’

"There are certain engagements," replied lord B—, a little confused at the air with which she uttered these words, "in which the "heart has no part.

"Very likely," interrupted Henrietta; ‘but it is sufficient for me to know, that the engagements your lordship has entered into, leaves you not the liberty of addressing me in this manner: and I look upon the professions you make me as the highest insult upon my distress.’

Lord B—, notwithstanding he found in this justifiable haughtiness the ruin of his hopes, could not help admiring a mind so rightly turned; humble with such propriety, and proud only, when condescension would be meanness.

"This is not a time," said he, ‘to tell you how far I am bound by those engagements you speak of; but, whatever they are, they ought not to deprive me of the happiness of doing you service.’

"I am obliged to you, my lord," said Henrietta; ‘but, at present, the greatest service you can do me is to take no notice of me.’

In speaking these words, she courtesied, and would have left him; but he, not able to part with her thus, snatched her hand.

"You must not leave me," said he, ‘till you promise to give me an opportunity of speaking to you more fully—Ah, how I love you!’ cried he, gazing on her passionately.

"Again, this insulting declaration!" interrupted Henrietta, pulling her hand from him, and giving him a look full of scorn and anger, as she turned away.

"Hear me, madam," cried he, pursuing her: ‘suffer me, in the character of your friend, to offer you my services. My mother was formerly acquainted with lady Meadows: if it will be of any use to you, I will engage her to renew it, and offer her mediation betwixt your aunt and you. You must not, b• heaven you must not, continue longer in so shocking a situation.’

This proposal, and the earnest manner in which it was made, drew Henrietta's attention: angry as she was, she thought it merited a civil return.

"Doubt not my lord," said she, her charming eyes recovering their usual sweetness, ‘that I should be glad to consider you in the character of a friend; and the offer you now make me is so obliging, that I cannot dispense with myself from telling you my reasons for declining it.’

She then, in a few words, acquainted him with the purport of her aunt's letter to her "Such are the terms," added she, ‘upo• which a reconciliation with my aunt ca• be only effected; therefore the countess's interposition in my favour, were she disposed to grant it, would be of no use.’

Lord B—, having before fully informed himself of every thing relating to miss Courteney, no sooner heard that for so trifling a compliance as the change of her religion it was in her power to secure lady Meadows' estate to herself, which he knew to be very considerable, than he thought fit to alter his style, and declared that the affair between miss Cordwain and him was not carried so far to take from him the liberty of following his inclinations, and of offering her his hand; be begged her therefore to favour him with another •nterview in the morning, when he would ex ••ain himself further.

Henrietta perceiving the countess's woman approaching, and unwilling to leave him in •oubt with regard to her sentiments upon this •ew proposal, thus answered hastily:

‘My lord, this can never be: there are many obstacles against it; you will find it very difficult to surmount those your own family will throw in your way; but, suppose that could be done, my scruples will raise others less easy perhaps to be overcome.’

She left him when she had said these few •ords, and went to meet Mrs. Supple, who told her she had procured a vehicle for her, and that it would be at the back-gate in less than an hour; but, continued she, there is a strange confusion within, have you seen your lady?

Henrietta told her she had not.

"God knows what is the matter," said Mrs. Supple; ‘she went into the garden to look for you as I imagined, and returned 〈◊〉 minutes ago with a most wrathful countenance: her father and she confabulated together, and then went into my lord's dressing-room; and Mr. Harris, my lord's gentleman, told me that the old man seemed to be very •••asy.’

Henrietta had no time to make any reflections upon what she heard; for a servant that moment came to tell Mrs. Supple, that her lady had sent him to look for her, and desired that she would bring miss Cordwain's woman to her apartment.

Henrietta, though a little surprised, followed Mrs. Supple with great chearfulness, who desired her to wait in the anti-chamber, while she went to acquaint her lady with her being there; where we will leave her for a few moments till the reader is informed of the accident that occasioned this summons.

CHAP. VIII.

Which contains a curious dialogue between the earl and the citizen.

MISS Cordwain, who in the notice lord B— took of Henrietta, found matter sufficient for jealousy and uneasiness, entertained the most injurious suspicions, when she heard her woman's sudden resolution to return to London; and having driven her from her presence with a torrent of abusive language, vented her rage in tears as soon as she was gone.

She reproached herself with her folly, in dismissing her so readily; when, by obliging her to stay, she might have guessed her designs, or at least have obtained a more certain knowledge of them.

Her mischievous imagination being now upon the stretch to find some expedient for protracting her departure, at last presented her with one which she resolved to make use of.

She hid a diamond bracelet; and then rung her bell for Henrietta, with an intention to tell her, that she could not find it, and insist upon her producing it before she left the earl's.

Mrs. Supple, who was that moment passing by her apartment, and knew that Henrietta was not in the way, stepped in to know what she wanted. Miss Cordwain asked for her woman, and, being told that she was walking in the garden, hastened thither immediately, not more delighted with the opportunity she now had of putting a stop to her journey, than of affronting her with the suspicion of theft.

As she descended the terrace, her eyes were blasted with the sight of her woman at a distance in earnest discourse with her lover.

At this confirmation of her suspicions, she ran back like a fury into the house, and meeting her father, who had just left the earl in his dressing-room, told him, that they were invited only to be affronted: that Henrietta was lord B—'s mistress; that he had taken her out of her service; and that she was going back to London that very night at his request.

The old man, without staying to enquire farther, or reflecting upon the extreme improbability of this story, swore that never a lord in the land should use his daughter ill, and strode back to the earl's apartment, while miss Cordwain retired to her own, meditating ven¦geance on those that had so cruelly injured her.

Mr. Cordwain, who had promised himself to speak to the earl in very high terms, was no sooner in his presence than he sunk into that li••leness, which meer monied men are so conscious of, with persons of birth and politeness. However, he assumed courage enough to tell his lordship, that he had something to say to him in private.

The earl, observing that his features were ruffled, was a little surprised; but dismissed his gentleman immediately, though he was not quite dressed, and then, with a complaisant smile, desired the citizen to let him know his commands.

"I am a plain man, my lord," said Mr. Cordwain, ‘I don't understand fine compliments and breeding, though I don't want for manners neither; and I am sure I have always been very civil to your lordship; and I did not expect that your lordship would have invited my girl and I here to scoff at us. My lord, I can give my girl forty thousand pounds, which is what few lords can say, let me tell you that; and withal I am an honest man, tho' I have forty thousand pounds more in my pocket perhaps: but no matter for that I am not proud of my riches.’

"Mr. Cordwain," said his lordship (wondering to what this eloquent harrangue tended) ‘I hope nothing has happened to give you any disgust; upon my honour, I have the highest esteem for you, and I think I give a proof of it, by being so desirous of your alliance; but I am at a loss to comprehend your meaning, when you talk of my having invited you and your daughter here to affront you. Miss Cordwain is a most accomplished young lady, and my son has too much judgment not to be as sensible as he ought of her merits.’

"Indeed," interrupted Mr. Cordwain, ‘my daughter is in my eye a very comely young woman; and I will never give her to any man, though he were a duke or a prince, that would keep a mistress under her nose, a• one may say.’

"You astonish me, Mr. Cordwain," replied his lordship; ‘have you any reason to suspect that my son is a libertine?’

"My lord," returned Mr. Cordwain, ‘I am no scholar, I don't understand hard wor••; I have had learning enough to scrape a few thousands together, and that is sufficient for me▪ Your lordship's son may be a libertine for what I can tell, that's neither here nor there but I am sure he is a terrible rake: and what tender father,’ pursued he, almost in tears, ‘would marry his child to a rake, to have all the fruits of his toil and labour, for thirty years and upwards, squandered away upon leud women?’

"Sure! Mr. Cordwain," interrupted his lordship, with a sterner accent, ‘you do not imagine my son capable of acting so dishonourably, his principles, Mr. Cordwain —’

"Nay, nay, my lord," resumed the citizen, ‘I have nothing to say against his principles; he is no Jacobite, I dare engage: but he is a rake, my lord, that is my objection to him, and rakes are very bad husbands.’

"My son," said the peer, ‘may have had some youthful follies; but I am sure miss Cordwain's beauty and good sense will fix his heart.’

‘And does your lordship really think my girl a beauty?’ said the fond father, his eyes glistening with pleasure. ‘Indeed I always thought so; but fathers, my lord, are apt to be partial.’

"She is both beautiful and witty," replied his lordship, who found every excellence in fifty thousand pounds.

"Nay, as for her wit," said Mr. Cordwain, ‘I am the best judge of that, who have seen her growing up under my eye. She took her learning surprisingly, my lord, and by that time she was ten years old, she and read her Psalter quite through. Would it not grieve one then (continued he) to part with such a girl as this to one that will slight her, and keep mistresses?’

"Do me the favour, Mr. Cordwain." said his lordship, ‘to acquaint me with your reasons for suspecting that my son will keep a mistress, though he should be so happy as to have miss Cordwain for a wife?’

"Why, you must know, my lord" replied the citizen, looking extremely wise▪ ‘that I have made a discovery; and yo•• son is actually carrying on an intrigue with my daughter's maid.’

"Sure this must be some mistake," cried the peer.

"No, no, my lord," answered Cordwain, "it is no mistake, I am very sure of it."

‘And you have discovered this intrigue, you say,’ resumed his lordship: "pray when, "and by what means, did you discover it?

"About half an hour ago," replied Mr. Cordwain; "my daughter told me of it."

‘Oh! then it was your daughter that discovered it,’ said his lordship, smiling a little at the old man's absurdity.

"Ay, ay, my lord," cried he, construing that smile into an acknowledgment of his daughter's sagacity. ‘I told your lordship she did not want for wit.’

‘But miss Cordwain is certainly mistaken now,’ said the peer; ‘this is some pretty frowardness, a love-quarrel; depend upon it we shall find it so: however, I will talk to my son, and I'll engage the countess to discourse your daughter upon this matter. Come, Mr. Cordwain, we who are the parents of these young people know their true interest better than they do, and must endeavour to make up this little breach between them. I will make an end of dressing,’ pursued his lordship, bowing low to the cit, ‘and join you in the garden a quarter of an hour hence, when I hope to clear up this affair to your satisfaction.’

Mr. Cordwain immediately withdrew; and the peer having stepped to his lady's apartment to acquaint her with this strange story, left it to her to manage miss Cordwain, and went in quest of his son, who, when Henrietta left him, had retired to his study, and was revolving in his mind a scheme, which, by reconciling his interest to his love, would gratify all his wishes.

CHAP. IX.

In which Henrietta has an interview with the countess.

THE countess, like a discreet matron, was resolved to see the young woman, of whom miss Cordwain entertained a jealousy, that she might by wholesome counsels fortify her against seduction; for she supposed that this suspicion took its rise from the girl's being pretty, and perhaps some little unmeaning gallantry of her son's, who, like all other young men, admired beauty whenever he found it.

She was willing also to know certainly whether miss Cordwain's fears were only imaginary, that she might the better effect a reconciliation between the lovers; for she passionately desired the completion of a match that would put her son into possession of forty thousand pounds.

When Mrs. Supple appeared in consequence of her summons, and told her that Mrs. Henrietta waited her ladyship's commands, the countess asked her what sort of a young woman she was?

Mrs. Supple replied, that she was an aukward sort of a body, mightily conceited of her beauty she believed; and Heaven knows, added she, she has not much to boast of.

"Well; tell her to come in," said the countess, beginning to believe, from this account of her, that miss Cordwain's fears were not without foundation; for vanity, she well knew, was the great underminer of chastity, from the duchess down to the chamber-maid.

When Henrietta entered the room, the countess, who expected to see a very different person, was so struck with her beauty and the dignity of her air, that she rose from her seat, and returned the graceful courtesy she made her with a complaisance that surprised her own woman, who, being ordered by her lady to leave the room, instantly obeyed, but went no farther than the door, where she stood listening, and heard all that passed.

"You appear to me," said the countess to Henrietta, with an engaging smile, ‘to deserve so little the suspicions that are entertained of you, that I really know not how to mention them to you, though it was for that purpose I sent for you hither.’

Henrietta was a little surprised at this beginning; but conscious of the integrity of all her actions, she was wholly free from any apprehensions that could discompose her.

‘I know not, madam (said she) the nature of those suspicions which I have incurred, but I am very sure I have no guilt to reproach myself with, which should make me fear to stand the strictest scrutiny.’

"Upon my word I believe you," said the countess, charmed with the noble confidence of her answer, and the graceful manner in which it was delivered; ‘and it must be my son's imprudence that has given occasion for Mr. Cordwain's suspicions.’

The countess was too delicate to make use of miss Cordwain's name upon this occasion; but Henrietta in an instant comprehended the whole mystery, and was now able to account for the injurious language that lady had given her.

"Own freely to me," pursued the countess, smiling, ‘has not my son been a little troublesome to you, and talked to you of love and such idle stuff?’

"It is some mortification to me, madam," replied Henrietta, blushing, ‘to own that I have been affronted in the manner your ladyship mentions: however it is certainly true, lord B— has thought me weak enough to be dazzled with his professions.’

"Then you have seen my son often," said the countess.

Henrietta, who thought it behoved her to be very explicit on this occasion, related to the countess the manner of her becoming acquainted with lord B—, his concealing himself in her chamber, and his behaviour afterwards.

"I did not know his lordship's name," pursued she; ‘and though I often heard him mentioned at Mr. Cordwain's, yet as I had no reason to suspect that he was the same young nobleman, whom I had such reason to avoid, I made no scruple to attend miss Cordwain hither.’

"I am very much concerned," said the countess, ‘to hear this account of my son; it was a very shocking attempt. So you have acquainted your mistress with what happened?’

"No, madam," answered Henrietta, ‘that was not necessary; but when I discovered that lord B— was the person who had treated me so freely, I desired miss Cordwain to dismiss me, because I did not chuse to throw myself in his way.’

"That was very prudently resolved," said the countess; ‘and when are you to leave miss Cordwain?’

"Immediately, madam," replied Henrietta; ‘I have provided myself with a post-chaise to return to London, and I believe it is now waiting for me.’

"Certainly!" said the countess (after a little pause) ‘this sudden resolution of your's must surprise miss Cordwain. What did she say when you acquainted her with it?’

"She was extremely angry, madam," replied Henrietta, ‘and said many severe things to me, at which I was then astonished; but it 〈◊〉 Cordwain entertained any unfavourable suspicions of me, her behaviour may be accounted for.’

"Since you have not acquainted her," said the countess, ‘with my son's rude attempt upon you, what reason could she have to suspect you?’

"I know of none, madam," answered Henrietta, ‘except his lordship's speaking to me in the garden a little time ago, may have come to her knowledge.’

‘You have shewn so much candor in your answers to my questions,’ resumed the countess, ‘that I am persuaded you will tell me frankly the subject of my son's discourse to you in the garden.’

"I was born to suffer indignities, madam," said Henrietta, her cheeks glowing with indignation: ‘My lord B—, though he must know that I was not ignorant of his honourable passion for miss Cordwain, yet dared to affront me with the mention of his love.’

The countess was a little surprised at this sally, which escaped Henrietta in the warmth of her resentment, when she recalled to her remembrance a declaration, which she looked on as the highest insult, since lord B— was acquainted with her birth. Had the countess known that it was the niece of the earl of—, who expressed herself in such lofty terms, she would have admired that becoming pride, which suggested them; but in the waiting-maid of miss Cordwain, it appeared absurd and ridiculous, and she was ready to suspect her of artifice and dissimulation.

But when she cast her eyes upon Henrietta, and saw the emotion with which she was agitated, the deep blush that glowed on her cheeks, and the tears that trembled in her eyes, she reproached herself with the injustice she was guilty of, in so soon admitting doubts of her innocence.

Henrietta, supposing from the silence of the countess, that she had no more to say to her, courtisied to her respectfully, and was about to withdraw.

"You must not go," said that lady, in an obliging accent, ‘till I know whether it is in my power to serve you. You have thrown up miss Cordwain's service upon my son's account, it is but just therefore that I should procure you another; if you are not provided for, I will recommend you to my sister, she will either take you herself, or settle you with another lady.’

The countess, in making this offer, had another view besides serving Henrietta. She was not willing to lose sight of her, for she rightly judged that with so many charms in her person, and an understanding far above what we generally found in persons of her rank, this young woman was very likely to inspire a solid passion; and she dreaded lest her son should be so far captivated by her as to neglect the advantageous match that was now offered him.

If she placed her with her sister, or with any of her friends, it would not be easy, she thought, for her son to get access to her; or if he resolved to continue his pursuit, his designs, whatever they were, would be known soon enough to be prevented.

Henrietta penetrated no further into the countess's sentiments, than what served to give her a high idea of her benevolence. She accepted her offer with expressions of the deepest gratitude; and this the lady considering as a proof of her sincerity and right intentions, she, in the billet which she gave her for her sister, recommended her in very obliging terms to her favour.

Henrietta again politely thanked her, and, receiving the billet, upon which there was a full direction, she went out of the countess's chamber, with an intention to depart immediately.

Mrs. Supple, whom she found in the anti-chamber, informed, her, that her chaise was waiting for her at the gate; upon which Henrietta took leave of her, and descended the backstairs, but was suddenly stopped by Mr. Cordwain, who had followed her, and, seizing her rudely by the arm, charged her with having robbed his daughter.

CHAP. X.

Contains a discovery which it is hoped the reader will not be displeased with.

"GOOD Heaven!" exclaimed Henrietta, in the utmost astonishment, ‘what can this mean?’

"Look you child," said the citizen, ‘my daughter tells me you have stole her diamond bracelet: any body but myself would send you to prison directly; but I am tender-hearted, and consider, that though I could hang you for this robbery, yet that would be poor satisfaction for such a loss: therefore in compassion I will spare your life, provided you immediately restore the bracelet.’

Henrietta had by this time collected her scattered spirits, and comprehended the motive of this malicious accusation.

"May I not see miss Cordwain, sir?" said she, in a composed accent; ‘I am 〈…〉 that I can convince her she wrongs are greatly by this strange suspicion.’

"See her! what should you see her for?" replied the old man, ‘unless you will give me back the bracelet: you must not think to move her with your whining; her intreaties shall not save you if you are obstinate; so look to it: but come, perhaps you will have the grace to repent, and return the bracelet; come along.’

Saying this, he pulled her up stairs, and led her, with no great complaisance, into his daughter's chamber, who sat exulting in her successful mischief, and the disgrace she had fixed upon the creature that presumed to rival her: a blush however dyed her cheeks at the sight of Henrietta, who, with a look that at once expressed the highest contempt of her mean accuser, and calm confidence in her own untainted innocence, asked her how she had so far offended her as to make her seek her life?

"Offended me, creature!" said miss Cordwain; ‘have you the assurance to imagine that I am uneasy because—because—You vain saucy flirt—who told you that I could be jealous of you? And so you suppose—but you shall produce my bracelet.’

"Ay, that she shall," cried the citizen; ‘I wish we were in town, I would carry her before alderman Grey-goose immediately. Come, girl, don't be a fool, but deliver up the bracelet, for this is a hanging matter, let me tell you.’

"Do you really propose, madam?" said Henrietta, looking on miss Cordwain with a most contemptuous smile, ‘to go through with this malicious accusation? and are you resolved to perjure yourself, and swear that I have got your bracelet?’

"What does the creature mean!" interrupted miss Cordwain, colouring.

"My meaning is," said Henrietta, ‘that your bracelet is certainly in your own possession; and that you pretend to have lost it only to fix a scandal upon me.’

"O my God!" cried miss Cordwain, putting her hand to her head; ‘the excessive insolence of this wench affects me so, I believe I shall faint—Dear papa, let her go about her business, I had rather lose ten bracelets than suffer so much uneasiness. Dear sir, let her go, one time or other she will meet with her deserts. She will not stop at this theft, but somebody else may bring her to justice; I will have nothing more to do with her.’

"Base woman!" cried Henrietta, almost choaked with rage. ‘No, I will not take the liberty you offer me: has our laws, think you, no punishment for a calumny like this, that strikes at life as well as reputation? You shall be forced to prove your charge, and my fame shall be cleared to your everlasting confusion.’

Miss Cordwain, conscious of her guilt, and apprehensive of the consequences of what she had done, knew not what answer to make to this menace. As for the citizen, he stared with stupid wonder upon the injured fair one: for the extraordinary emotion she was in, gave such vehemence to her utterance, and such fire to her eyes, that he even trembled, as if in the presence of some superior being. But poor Henrietta, after this sudden sally of rage, found her heart so oppressed with the indignity she had suffered, that she burst into a violent passion of tears.

Miss Cordwain was ready to renew her insults; when she found her so mortified, and her father being recovered from his pannick, again urged her to restore the bracelet; when a servant came in, and informed them, that dinner was going to be served, and that his lord and lady expected them in the dining-room.

Miss Cordwain immediately obeyed the summons, for she dreaded the conclusion of this affair. When she entered the room, the countess, who knew nothing of what had happened, seeing her look very pale, asked her, if she was well? and lord B—, who had promised his father to cure her jealousy by redoubled assiduity for the future, approached, and, with a well counterfeited tenderness, expressed his concern for her indisposition.

Miss Cordwain, who had been assured by her father that the earl earnestly desired the match between his son and her should go forward, resolved not to protract it by any shew of resentment at what was past, and therefore received his little assiduities with all the complaisance she was mistress of; but desirous of mortifying him in the person of her who had so greatly attracted his notice, as well as to give him an opinion of the softness of her disposition, she told him, that indeed she was prodigiously discomposed▪ that her maid had robbed her; "and my father," added she, ‘threatens the poor wretch with a prosecution, and I was weak enough to be excessively shocked with her blubbering.’

"Has your maid robbed you, miss?" said the countess, extremely surprised.

‘She has stolen a diamond bracelet from me this very morning, madam,’ replied miss Cordwain.

"Impossible!" cried lord B—, in a transport that deprived him of all consideration; ‘miss Courteney could not be guilty of any thing mean or scandalous.’

These words were scarce uttered, when he discovered and repented of his indiscretion; but it was now too late to repair it.

"Miss Courteney!" repeated miss Cordwain, recovering from her surprise; ‘who is miss Courteney, my lord?’

The countess, perceiving her son was embarrassed, endeavoured to relieve him, by asking miss Cordwain some questions concerning her loss; but that young lady would not be diverted from her question.

‘This creature has a variety of names, I suppose (said she): she hired herself to me by the name of Benson, and Courteney it seems is that she has been formerly known by. Sure I have been very unfortunate to get such a wretch to attend me.’

"Madam," said lord B—, again thrown off his guard by his indignation at hearing a woman of Henrietta's merit so grosly abused, ‘you don't know who you are speaking of?’

"Why, do you know?" said the earl to his son, in an accent that shewed how extremely he was displeased with his imprudence.

‘Yes, my lord (replied he) I do; and madam,’ pursued he, addressing himself to miss Cordwain, ‘I am sure you will have candor enough to excuse my engaging with some warmth in the defence of the unfortunate young lady, who is now your servant▪ when you shall know that she is the niece of the earl of—; and that it is her firm attachment to the religion she was brought up in, which hinders her from succeeding to a very large estate, and makes it necessary for her to go to service for a subsistence.’

This account brought tears into the eyes of the countess, who inly applauded herself for her discernment in the favourable sentiments she conceived for Henrietta before she knew who she was.

The earl appeared moved, and was beginning to ask his son some questions concerning this fair unfortunate, when miss Cordwain fetched a deep sigh, and fell back in her chair.

Rage at this discovery of her rival's birth and extraordinary merit, and terror, left the scandalous accusation she had forged against her, should end in her own disgrace, operated so powerfully upon her spirits, that she fainted away.

While the countess supported her, lord B— rang the bell very deliberately for assistance; and the earl, not much concerned at an accident, which he imputed to a jealousy that proved her passion for his son, took that opportunity to remind him that it was his interest to improve the affection this young woman had for him.

The countess, who had in vain searched her pockets for a smelling-bottle, ordered a servant, who appeared at the summons of the bell, to bring one off her toilet; when Mr. Cordwain entered the room, and, seeing his daughter in that condition, made but one step from the door to the place where she sat, exclaiming, ‘Oh! my child, what ails my child? is she dead?’

"Don't be alarmed," said the countess, ‘it is only a fainting fit, she will recover presently.’

Lord B—, who was ashamed to appear wholly inactive upon this occasion before his designed father-in-law, had presence of mind enough to take a decanter of water from the side-board, and sprinkle some of it on miss Cordwain's face.

This remedy was applied so successfully, that she immediately opened her eyes, but the first object they met had like to have closed them again: for her father, hearing a smelling-bottle called for, remembered that she always carried one or two about her, and, searching her pockets with trembling haste, pulled out, with a smelling-bottle, the bracelet which she had concealed there, as a place where it was likely to be most secure, being subject to no search but her own.

The old man made none of those reflections upon this accident, which were obvious enough to every one else; but, perceiving his daughter was beginning to recover, presented the bracelet, instead of the smelling-bottle to her, conceiving the former to be the best restorative.

"See, child!" cried he, in a transport, ‘I have found your bracelet—come, you must be well now—I don't wonder you was grieved: truly it would have been a great loss.’

Miss Cordwain flattered herself from the words I have found your bracelet, that her father had had wit enough to save her from any reproach, by giving some favourable turn to the discovery; but in this she greatly over-rated his abilities.

"And where dost think I found it, child:" pursued the old man: ‘even in thy own pocket, as all the company can witness.’

"Very true;" said lord B—, maliciously.

"Was it found in my pocket?" said miss Cordwain. ‘Why then, to be sure, I pulled it off with my glove this morning, and forgot it: I protest I am sorry there has been so much noise made about it.’

"It is a pity indeed," said the countess, ‘considering who the person is that was supposed to have stolen it.’

"O la! papa," cried miss Cordwain, ‘you don't know that my maid Henrietta is discovered to be a great lady. Upon my word it is true,’ pursued she, seeing him look surprised.

"I am sorry to hear that," said the citizen, rubbing his forehead; ‘for if she has friends who will support her, she may commence a suit against me for Scandalum Magnatum, and what a power of money may I lose—See what comes of your heedlessness, girl. I protest I don't know what to do.’

The countess, though she was vexed at the vulgar sarcasm of the daughter, was nevertheless desirous of freeing the old man from his uneasiness, as well as to have an excuse for visiting the injured young lady.

‘I am persuaded (said she) that miss Courteney's delicacy will prevent her from seeking any publick reparation for the affront she has suffered; but I will see her myself, and, if necessary, dissuade her from taking any resolution to your prejudice.’

Lord B—, who was talking to his father at distant window, hearing this proposal, approached, and, by a look which he gave the countess his mother, seemed to bespeak her utmost tenderness and complaisance to the afflicted fair one.

Mr. Cordwain thanked her 〈◊〉 for her kindness. "But, Odso! madam." 〈…〉, stopping her as she was 〈…〉 ‘I 〈◊〉 your ladyship's pardon, you must take the key up with you,’ continued he, •••eling in his pockets, and at last pulling it out; ‘for when I came down, I locked the door for fear the bird should fly away.’ With these words, he gave the countess the key, smiling and nodding his head in applause of his own sagacity.

The countess was extremely shocked to hear of this new indignity which the poor young lady had suffered, but she dissembled her concern, and silently withdrew.

Lord B— again stole to a window to hide his emotions; and the earl, though greatly disgusted with the behaviour of both father and daughter, yet approached them with a complaisant air, and congratulated the 〈◊〉 on the recovery of her jewel.

Thus did these noble persons accommodate themselves to the manners of those whom they in secret despised; and, for the sake of a few paltry thousands, shewed the utmost solicitude to associate plebean meanness in the honours of a noble ancestry, and to give title, rank, precedence, to one who would disgrace them all.

CHAP. XI.

Henrietta returns to London.

THE countess, who was greatly affected with the cruel usage Henrietta had received, could with difficulty restrain her tears when she entered the room where the fair pri •oner was confined: that air of distinction which he had observed in her before she knew her •rth, seemed now more remarkable, and made •e humiliating condition to which she was re •uced, a subject of painful reflection to lady —, •ho approached her with a look of tenderness and pity, and, taking her hand,

‘I scarce know how to speak to you (said she) about an affair that miss Cordwain has much more reason to be ashamed of than you. She has found her bracelet.’

Henrietta was a little surprised at the kind and •miliar manner in which the countess accosted her; but still preserving that distant respect, which was due from the character she had assumed to a lady of her rank, she courtesied profoundly low, and thanked her for the honour she did her in condescending to bring this grateful piece of news herself.

"I must tell you also," said the countess ‘that I am not ignorant of your name and family, nor of your motives for submitting to go to service; forwhich you deserve to be esteemed and admired by all the world. It was my so• that betrayed your secret,’ pursued the lady observing that Henrietta looked surprised; ‘ • will not ask you now how you came to intru•• him with it, some other time you shall, if you please, tell me all your story. I have now on leisure to assure you, that I am your since friend, and that I will serve you with all th• interest I have in any way you shall desire.’

Henrietta, after making a proper acknowledgment for this kind declaration, told the counte• that being determined to continue the way life she had entered into, till her relations themselves thought proper to alter it, the recommendation her ladyship had given her to 〈◊〉 sister, was the greatest service she could poss• desire, and would be ever most gratefully remem•bered.

"I admire your resolution," said the countess; ‘but I am grieved to think you should be in a situation so unworthy of you; something must be done to extricate you from it.’

"I beg, madam," said Henrietta, ‘that your ladyship's kind concern for me may not lead you to take any steps in my favour with my relations. No;’ pursued she, with some warmth, ‘their unnatural behaviour to me deserves the neglect I shew them, in not soliciting their assistance. I have already got over all those little passions and prejudices which might hinder me from being easy with my humble lot; and I freely confess to you, madam, that I find a secret pleasure in the thoughts of mortifying the pride of my lord —, when some accident (for an accident it must be) shall shew him his niece in the quality of a servant.’

"Consent at least," said the countess, ‘to my acquainting my sister with your birth, that she may endeavour to place you in such a manner as will be most agreeable to you.’

‘I do not wish, madam, to be known to the person I serve,’ replied Henrietta; ‘and I desire to have no other consideration shewn me than what my behaviour in the station I am placed in shall merit.’

"Well," said the countess, ‘it shall be as you would have it; but I cannot express to you how much I esteem and admire you— You may judge of my good opinion of you, when I tell you, that as to what regards my son's passion for you, I depend entirely upon your candor and generosity. You know our views for him; and this is all I shall say.’

"I am obliged to you, madam," said Henrietta, ‘for the confidence you repose in me; I will endeavour to deserve it. And now, madam,’ pursued she, smiling, ‘since my imprisonment is at an end, I will, with your ladyship's permission, set out immediately for London; the chaise I had hired is, I suppose, still waiting for me. I hope to have the honour of presenting your letter to lady C— to-morrow or next day at farthest.’

"Take my kindest wishes along with you," said the countess, kissing her, and taking a diamond ring from her finger: ‘wear this for my sake,’ said she, giving it to Henrietta; ‘the intrinsick value of it is but small, but I hope you will consider it as a mark of my esteem for you.’

The countess went out of the room as soon as she had spoke these words, leave•• Henrietta extremely affected with her kindness: and all obstacles to her journey being now removed, she hastened to the gate, placed herself in her postchaise which she found waiting, and in a few moments was out of sight.

Mean time, the countess returned to her company, and told Mr. Cordwain, smiling, that he had nothing to fear from Henrietta's vindictive resolutions. Upon which, miss Cordwain said, she would go up to her, and make her an apology for what had happened; but dinner was that moment served, which made it not necessary for the countess to tell her that Henrietta was gone, in order to prevent her intended civility: but as soon as a proper opportunity offered, she took care to let the young lady know, that her suspicions of Henrietta were very ill grounded; that she was perfectly, virtuous; and likely to remain in the obscure condition of a servant, unless her relations, who were persons of rank and fortune, thought proper to do something for her.

She added, in order to remove all her uneasiness that she had recommended her to a lady who would procure her a place, which was the least she could do for a young woman of her birth, in such unhappy circumstances.

Miss Cordwain was very well satisfied with what the countess had done; being persuaded, that since she was so desirous the treaty between lord B— and her should go forward, that she would take care to hinder any thing from happening on the part of Henrietta, that might give her cause for disgust.

But poor lord B— was in a truly pitiable situation: he was in love with the person of Henrietta, and the fortune of miss Cordwain; and these different passions by turns equally possessed him, so that it was impossible for him to form any fixed resolution.

When he reflected on the solid advantages that would accrue to him from a marriage with the packer's daughter, such as being enabled to play as high at Arthur's as my lord—, to bring as many race-horses to New-Market as —, to have as splendid equipages as the earl of —, and several others, which make the envy and emulation of many of our present race of nobles, he was ready to sacrifice his inclinations to motives so just, so reasonable, so meritorious.

But when the image of Henrietta rose to h• thoughts; her person so lovely, her manners • elegant, her birth not beneath his own, her virtu• so eminent; how could he think of putting su• a treasure out of his reach, by marrying her de•picable rival! And indeed, so just were his notio• of this treasure, and so high his value of it, that, provided any method could be found to reconcile her to her aunt, and secure to her the succession of her estate, he would willingly have renounced his pretensions to miss Cordwain, and have married Henrietta; though her fortune, as heiress of lady Meadows's estate, would be some thousands less than miss Cordwain's.

Such a proof of disinterestedness, he thought, must needs be very grateful to a young woman of Henrietta's fine understanding and enlarged sentiments; and, having brought himself to this point, his next care was to procure a private interview with her, that he might acquaint her with his designs, and engage her concurrence with them.

But this scheme being defeated by her sudden departure, which he learned from his mother, he was plunged into new perplexity and uneasiness. He asked the countess, with an air of indifference and unconcern, where she was gone, and how she intended to dispose of herself? But that discerning lady, who observed his sudden emotion at the news of Henrietta's departure, would give him no other satisfaction than telling him, that she supposed she would again go to service; for she seemed to have no expectations of any savour from her relations.

Lord B—, after a little reflection, comforted himself with a hope, that some accident or other would again throw her in his way; and that the disgust she must necessarily entertain, to a way of life so unworthy of her, would induce her to embrace his honourable proposals: for such he conceived them to be, since all the sacrifice he should expect from her, was a temporary compliance with her aunt's inclinations with regard to religion: but however, he thought it would be prudent not to break, off with miss Cordwain, because in her fortune he would always find wherewithal to comfort himself, if he was disappointed in his love.

In pursuance of this wise resolution, he behaved in such a manner to that young lady, as gave her no cause to be displeased with him; so that every thing in this noble family, and their designed allies, was upon the same footing as before Henrietta, with mischief-making beauty, came in the way.

Notes

†
The author of maxims, characters, and reflections, etc. Printed for J. and R. Tonson.
↵

HENRIETTA. BOOK THE FOURTH.

CHAP. I.

Atheists have been but rare, since Nature's birth;

'Till now she-atheists ne'er appear'd on earth.

Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs

This daring character in timorous things!

Who start at feathers, from an insect fly,

A match for nothing— but the Deity.

YOUNG'S UNIVERSAL PASSION.

MEAN time our fair heroine, having performed her little journey without any unfortunate accident, arrived late in the evening at the house of her friend Mrs. Willis, who, in her astonishment at her sudden return, asked her a hundred questions in a breath.

Henrietta satisfied her eager curiosity with a succinct detail of all that had happened to her that day, which had indeed been a very busy one.

The honest heart of Mrs. Willis was variously affected with the different parts of her story▪ She wept for her sufferings: she execrated the malicious miss Cordwain; she praised the countess; and was exceedingly solicitous about the purport of lord B—'s designs, which, from what she had heard of his behaviour, appeared to her very mysterious. But Henrietta, who had a thorough contempt for that young lord, declared, that although he should break with miss Cordwain, and address her upon honourable terms, yet she could not bring her 〈◊〉 to approve of him.

‘He is mean (said she) and sordid in his temper. His principles are bad: he is a lord, but he is not a gentleman; and I am sure I could never esteem him. Besides the countess, who is more alarmed about the sentiments he has for me than I think she has reason, depends upon my honour not to encourage any overtures from him, and I will not abuse her confidence.’

‘It is easy (pursued she, smiling) to be just when our own inclinations do not oppose it. I shall pretend to no merit in making this sacrifice, if ever it be in my power to make it; because in reality it will not be a great one. If riches and splendor could have made me happy, I would have married sir Isaac Darby; for it was not his age that I objected to most, but those qualities and manners which made his age contemptible.’

"But, surely, my dear," said Mrs. Willis, ‘your gratitude would be engaged, should lord B—, in the present inequality of your circumstances, make you an offer of his hand.’

"Not at all," replied Henrietta, with some warmth: ‘no man has a right to the love or esteem of a woman on whom he has entertained dishonourable designs, and, failing in them, offers marriage at last. The lover, who marries his mistress only because he cannot gain her upon easier terms, has just as much generosity as the highwayman who leaves a traveller in possession of his money, because he is not able to take it from him.’

"Well, well, my dear miss," said Mrs. Willis, smiling, ‘I can collect this at least from the nice distinctions you make, that your heart is absolutely free; you would not reason so well, were there any secret passion in the case.’

"Surely," replied Henrietta, ‘you do not imagine that I should become less delicate in my notions for being in love: that passion, like some plants, derives its qualities from the soil it grows in; for instance, in lord B—, it is mean, selfish, wavering.’

"And what would it be in you?" interrupted Mrs. Willis.

"Ah! no matter," cried Henrietta: ‘I am not in love yet, and never will by with a man who has such sentiments as lord B—; he had best be constant to miss Cordwain. Plebean lords and the nobility of the shop and warehouse are equal matches.’

To this remark Mrs. Willis, who was pleased with the vivacity of her fair friend▪ assented only with a smile: for supper was now placed upon the table; and, as she knew Henrietta had not dined, she was extremely solicitous to make her eat, and with the same maternal fondness hurried her soon to bed, that she might recover the fatigue she had suffered during the day.

The next morning at eleven o clock, our fair heroine set out in an hackney-••ach for — square, where lady D— h••d, to whom she was to deliver the recommendatory letter which the countess had given her.

The lady was at her toilet when she read her sister's letter, which Henrietta had sent in to her, and immediately ordered her admittance. Surprised at the elegant figure which met her eyes in the glass upon our fair heroine's entering the room, she hastily turned her head, and gazed on Henrietta so intently, that she blushed; which lady D— observing, obligingly desired her to sit down, and said, she would talk to her presently.

Henrietta modestly placed herself at a distance, but so luckily for the lady's curiosity, that she could have a full view of her in her glass, without renewing her confusion.

"My sister," said lady D—, breaking silence at last, ‘has mentioned you very advantageously, Mrs. Benson, I wish it may be in my power to serve you.’

Henrietta bowed respectfully.

"You are very young," pursued the lady; ‘I suppose miss Cordwain's was the first service you ever lived in?’

At the word Service Henrietta blushed again; and indeed the lady did not pronounce it without some hesitation, for having a sensible and ingenuous mind, she felt the impropriety of the term when used towards a person, who, notwithstanding the humility of her deportment, had a dignity in her looks and air, which commanded respect. She took notice of this emotion, and the more because she saw it endeavoured to be suppressed; and being desirous of gaining some further knowledge of her, she asked her a hundred little questions, which she thought would lead her to an explanation of her circumstances.

Henrietta avoided making a discovery of herself, but answered in such a manner, as, without satisfying the lady's curiosity, gave her a very good opinion of her candor and her sense: but she was particularly struck with the graceful ease with which she talked; and observed such a perfect politeness in her manners, as persuaded her she was born in a much higher rank than her present situation allowed the probability of.

Lady D—'s daughter now entered the room, and asked her mamma, if she desired to hear her take a lesson from her singing-master that morning?

The lady ordered the master to be admitted, upon which Henrietta rose up to go away; but the lady told her, with a benevolent smile, that she should stay and hear miss D—perform, and desired her to resume her seat.

While the young lady was singing, lady D— kept her eyes fixed on Henrietta's face, and, from the sweet expression in it, collecting that she had a taste for musick, asked her, if she had ever been taught?

Henrietta, though not willing to make a display of talents which were not necessary to her present condition, yet owned, that she had a little knowledge of musick.

Lady D— immediately desired to hear her sing, and the young lady at the same time presenting her guitar to her, she was obliged to comply. Her air, her attitude, the exquisite grace with which she touched the little instrument, the sweetness of her voice, and the sensibility in her fine eyes, charmed lady D—, who was an enthusiastick admirer of the art, so that she cried out in a kind of transport, ‘Mr. Minime! would you not be proud of such a scholar?’

"Madam," said the master, bowing, ‘the young gentlewoman has a very pretty voice and manner, to be sure: but if miss D— applies closely to musick for seven or eight years longer, and does not suffer her mind to be distracted with the study of other sciences, I shall have more reason to be proud of my scholar than any master in the world.’

This speech forced a smile from Henrietta, who the third time rose up to be gone, upon hearing a female visiter announced; but lady D—, conceiving that she was not obliged to a strict observation of ceremony with the person that was now entering, again insisted upon Henrietta's staying, telling her, she had thought of something for her; and that she would acquaint her with it as soon as the lady was gone.

Henrietta had but just time to express a grateful acknowledgment of her kindness, when the visiter was introduced. She was a woman or a mean aspect, but had a great deal of selfsufficiency in her air. After the usual compliments were over, she threw herself into an easy chair, and examined Henrietta with such extreme attention, that she blushed.

The lady, who took consequence to herself from the power of throwing on ingenuous mind into confusion, finding that Henrietta was oppressed by her looks, gazed at her the more earnestly: and having indulged herself several minutes in this exertion of her superiority, thought it was now time to make the poor bashful girl stare in her turn, and began to display her wit and learning; the former in an inundation of words that swallowed up her meaning, and the latter in French words and phrases, brought in to supply the deficiencies of her own native tongue.

Lady D—, who was used to divert herself with the singularity of this woman's character, listened to her with complaisance. But Henrietta, who began to conceive a very mean opinion of a lady who seemed to value herself so highly upon the knowledge of a language, which was now become a part of every cobler's daughter's education, beheld her with an indifference that sensibly wounded her pride, and made her have recourse to other methods to impress her prodigious consequence upon her; and since she could not make her stare at her learning, she was resolved to make her wonder at her principles.

‘You know, lady D— (said she abruptly) I do not often go to church.’

"I know it, and I am sorry for it," replied her ladyship.

‘Upon my word (said she) I have too much reverence for the Deity to go to a place where it is ten to one but I shall hear him blasphemed.’

Henrietta now began to stare indeed. The wonderful lady proceeded,

‘I never pretend to deny that I am a deist.’

"You must pardon me, Mrs. —," interrupted lady D—, ‘if I tell you that I really think you often declare that very improperly; I have heard you say so before your children and servants.’

"Madam," replied Mrs. — ‘I take care that my servants shall not think me an atheist. They know my principles better: they know I am a deist; they have heard me declare that I believe there is an Intelligent cause which governs the world by physical rules. As for moral attributes, there is no such thing; it is impious and absurd to suppose it. The arbitrary constitution of things in the human system produces happiness and misery; that is to say, misery and happiness is productive of—Or rather, as I said before, the arbitrary constitution of things, vice and virtue, is necessarily produced by—that is, necessarily brings on happiness or misery.— Prayer, and such like artifices of religion, is foolish: for whatever is, is right. To talk of imitating God, is blasphemy. His Providence is extended to collective bodies only; he has no regard to individuals: nor is the soul a distinct substance from the body. There is no future state; it is all a fiction. To argue from unequal distributions is absurd and blasphemous. Whatever is, is best. The law of nature is sufficiently clear; and there is no need of any supernatural revelation.’

"I must intreat you, madam," interrupted lady D—, seeing her eldest daughter that moment enter the room, ‘to change the discourse now, miss has not been used to such deep reasoning on these aweful subjects, and may perhaps mistake what you are saying for blasphemy.’

‘More absurd mistakes than that may be made, madam,’ replied Mrs. —, ‘when persons are not allowed to exercise their mental faculties— but your ladyship is going to dress—I interrupt you.’ Saying this, she rose "up, and lady D— making no efforts to detain her, took her leave.

"I have always hated that woman," said miss D—, as soon as she was gone, ‘ever since I heard her ridicule parental affection, and call it brutual instinct.’

"Oh," said lady D—, laughing, ‘it would ill become one of her elevated understanding, to have natural affections: those she treats as vulgar prejudices. Her own sex are the objects of her scorn, because they are subject to such weaknesses as tenderness and pity. She reads Seneca on friendship in the morning; and exclaims, O the exalted passion! how divinely he treats it! what noble sentiments! In the afternoon she over-reaches her friend, and applauds her own wisdom. Epictetus is studied with great care. She will preach a moral sermon out of Epictetus that will last two hours. Epictetus teaches her to regulate her passions. She reads him intently while her maid is combing her hair, and closes her book to storm at the poor trembling creature for accidentally hurting her with the comb.’

CHAP. II.

In which Henrietta makes a very fantastick distinction.

HEnrietta could not help smiling at lady D—'s satirical manner of exposing the follies of the lady who had just left the room: but a female free-thinker was, in her opinion, so shocking a character, that she would much rather have seen it the object of abhorrence than mirth.

Lady D— put an end to her reflections: for, turning towards her, ‘Mrs. Benson (said she) it is time to think of you now.’ Henrietta immediately rose from her seat.

"There is a lady of my acquaintance," pursued lady D—, ‘to whom your accomplishments of singing and playing will make you a very acceptable companion: and indeed I think it is a pity a young woman of your appearance and genteel education should remain in the condition of a servant, which I am persuaded you was not born to.’

Henrietta blushed; which lady D— observing, "come," said she, smiling, ‘be ingenuous, and confess that the proposal I have made you will suit you better than being a servant.’

"Indeed, madam, it does not," replied Henrietta; ‘I am extremely obliged to your ladyship for your kind intentions, but I had rather be recommended to the lady as a servant than in any other character.’

"You surprise me," said lady D—, after a little pause; ‘what objections can you have to a situation so much to be preferred to servitude?’

"I am very sure, madam," said Henrietta, ‘that I have not too much pride to be a servant, since it is necessary I should be one: but I am afraid I cannot so easily 〈…〉 a dependent.’

Lady D—, a little disappointed to find herself so far below this obscure young person in delicacy of sentiment, answered gravely,

‘Well, since it must be so, I will serve you in your own way; let me see you again a few days hence, by that time I may possibly have heard of something for you.’

Henrietta again politely thanked her ladyship, and withdrew, leaving lady D— and her daughter differently affected with her behaviour in this last instance: for young minds are apt to be struck with uncommon sentiments, and to admire such as seem to possess them; while persons advanced in years, either from experience of the world, or the natural depravity of the human heart, ascribe every thing to affectation and design, that contradicts certain received maxims in life.

However, Henrietta's peculiarity made lady D— extremely desirous to know who she was, and whether there was any thing extraordinary in her circumstances. She wrote to the countess her sister, expressing her curiosity: but that lady was resolved to keep Henrietta's secret, as well in regard to the promise she had given her, as because she really thought an unseasonable discovery of her true name and family would be disadvantageous to the plan she had laid.

She therefore contented herself with telling her sister, in her answer, that Mrs. Benson was a very deserving young woman, who had been well brought up, but, by misfortunes in her family, reduced to go to service.

Lady D— was satisfied with this account; and when Henrietta, in obedience to her commands, waited on her again, she received her with great benevolence; told her, she had recommended her to a lady of great fortune, whose place she believed would be an advantageous one; and ordered her own woman to go with a message to the lady, and introduce her.

Henrietta having a hackney-coach waiting, lady D—'s woman and her, after some ceremonies which our fair heroine would gladly have dispensed with, seated themselves in it; and, as soon as it drove from the door, the Abigail began,

‘Well, madam, you are certainly very fortunate, Mrs. Autumn's place is one of the best in Christendom: you have nothing to do but to flatter her, and you will gain her heart for ever.’

"Is the lady fond of flattery then?" said Henrietta.

"Oh! immensely," cried the other; ‘but for fear you should mistake, and compliment her in the wrong place, you must know (and I think it is very lucky that I had an opportunity of instructing you) you must know that though she is between forty and fifty years of age, she affects to be thought extremely young; and having been handsome in her youth, as my lady says, she forgets she is no longer so now she is old.’

‘Now, dear madam, this is your cue. Be sure to praise her bloomy complexion, and the brightness of her eyes; and, if she bids you guess how old she is, as 'tis ten to one but she will some time hence, don't exceed twenty years, I charge you.’

‘The poor simple girl that lived with her last, lost her place, by saying, when she asked her how old she believed her to be, that she took her ladyship to be about the same age as her mother. She was a vulgar creature, to be sure. You, madam, are in no danger of speaking so improperly. But on certain occasions you may contradict her rudely, and she will be the more pleased; as for instance, when she says she looks horridly! tell her in a surly way, as if you were vexed at her perverseness, that you never saw her look so handsome.’

"Mighty well," said Henrietta, smiling, ‘I perceive you are excellent in this art; I am—’

"Oh! no thanks, dear madam," interrupted lady D—'s woman, ‘I am fond of doing good offices.’

"I was going to say," replied Henrietta, ‘that I am afraid these wise documents will be thrown away upon me.’

"I hope not," said the other, gravely. ‘Come, take courage, you are but a young beginner; these things come of 〈◊〉 I should be sorry you were not capable of taking good counsel.’

They were now arrived at Mrs. Autumn's house: lady D—'s woman sent up word, that she was come with the person her lady had recommended to her ladyship; upon which both were ordered to go up stairs.

They found the lady giving audience to millener, a mantua-maker, and a mercer. Several pieces of silk lay unrolled before he and a vast variety of ribbons, lappets, egret• and other fashionable trifles, were spread upo• a table, on which she leaned, in a thoughtful posture, as unable to determine her choice.

When Henrietta and her companion entere• she raised her eyes, and nodding familiarly lady D—'s woman, who approached he• courtsying; ‘you find me excessively busy, M• Echo (said she) well, what has lady D— sent me—Oh! a good-likely body,’ pursued she, looking at Henrietta; ‘my compliments, Mrs. Echo, and thanks—You see I have hardly time to speak to you—The young woman may stay, I'll talk to her presently.’

Mrs. Echo withdrew; and the lady resuming her contemplative posture, gave Henrietta an opportunity of considering her at leisure.

If lady D—'s woman had not fixed her age at somewhat more than forty, she would have concluded her to have been older, by the deep furrows in her face, her fallen cheeks, and the poor shrivell'd hand that supported her head: but her dress spoke her scarce fifteen; a French fillet supplied the place of a cap, and served to bind the few straggling hairs that graced her temples, to a tète, which was so loaded with hair, that her head seemed to be of an enormous size. The rest of her dress was suited exactly to the childish ornaments of her head; and though no object could be more ridiculous, yet Henrietta beheld her with a serious concern; for, true benevolence compassionates those follies which unfeeling hearts sacrifice to mirth.

Mrs. Autumn at length rose up; ‘that must be the thing,’ said she, pointing to a pink and silver. She then gave some directions to her millener; and, suddenly interrupting herself, turned with a lively air to the mercer, and asked him, why he had not cut off the silk?

‘Your ladyship did not tell me how much you wanted,’ replied the tradesman.

"Lord! I am the giddiest creature," exclaimed Mrs. Autumn. This matter however was soon settled, and the important business with the millener dispatched, she dismissed her trades-people, and, throwing herself with an affected air upon a settee, ordered Henrietta to come forward.

‘I was afraid (said she) that lady D—, who is very fond of seeing grave solemn faces about her, had sent me some antiquated creature that would have frightened me; but you seem to be a sprightly young body: we shall agree very well, I hope.’

Henrietta courtesied.

"I hate old people," pursued the lady; ‘they are generally obstinate and surly. God help us, we shall all be old if we live—but when one is in years one's self it is time enough to be plagued with the humours of those that are• you will suit me extremely well.’

Henrietta courtesied again.

"You are no talker, I find," said Mrs. Autumn, a little chagrined that the hints she had thrown out, had produced nothing which could flatter her extreme desire of being thought young. ‘Well, there is no great harm in that; I shall take you upon lady D—'s recommendation. As for terms—’

"Madam," said Henrietta, who now for the first time opened her mouth; ‘they shall be whatever you think proper.’

"Very well," said the lady, ‘we will talk no more about them then; if you can find out how to please me, which will be no difficult matter I assure you, my place may prove a very advantageous one, and the sooner you come the better.’

Henrietta told her, she was ready to come whenever she pleased. Upon which, Mrs. Autumn, with the pretty impatience of youth, asked her, if it would be any inconvenience to her to come that very night?

Henrietta, who was naturally obliging, assured her it would not; and was dismissed with a gracious smile for her ready compliance.

Mrs, Willis, who had flattered herself that she should enjoy the company of her amiable friend for a few weeks at least, was greatly disappointed when she found she was to lose her •o soon; and gently blamed her for being so pre ••pitate.

Henrietta gave her the character of the lady she was going to live with, and repeated what she had said to her. ‘You may be sure (added she) that I shall never please Mrs. Autumn in the way she expects to be pleased. Flattery is always mean; but to flatter solly, is, in my opinion, criminal. However, I gladly embraced the first opportunity that offered to shew my willingness to oblige, though I would not flatter her. You will hardly believe me, perhaps (said she, smiling) when I tell you, that one of the greatest bars to my happiness in my present humble situation is, the difficulty of pleasing without wounding my own delicacy and candor. It is not easy to live well with our superiors, and preserve our integrity, but it is not impossible; and, if fail in that attempt, I shall at least have this satisfaction, that I suffer in the cause 〈◊〉 virtue.’

‘It requires all that sweetness of temp• which you possess,’ said Mrs. Willis, ‘ •• live with a woman of Mrs. Autumn's fanta•∣tick turn, without being disgusted with • What an absurdity! at fifty years to expect • be thought young; and to imagine that, • affecting the follies of youth, she shall ha• the bloom of it also. Our sex have been • preached with never cultivating our minds till we can no longer please by our persons; but here is a woman who has not judgment enough to know when she ought to resign the hope of pleasing by her person. Take my word for it, you will be very unhappy with her, unless you resolve to accommodate yourself to her humour, and sooth her in her ridiculous folly.’

"That I will not do," replied Henrietta; ‘and since I have learned not to fear poverty, my happiness will never depend upon others.’

Mrs. Willis, finding she could not prevail with her fair friend to alter her resolution, acquiesced in it at length; and Henrietta, taking an affectionate leave of her, repaired to her new habitation.

CHAP. III.

Which shews Henrietta in her new service, where she acquits herself extremely ill.

THE lady being engaged with company when Henrietta arrived, she did not see her till late at night, when she was summoned to undress her.

"Come hither, Henrietta," said she, as soon as she entered the room; ‘I have seen lady D— since you was here—She has given me such an advantageous account of your understanding, that I am resolved to make you my confidant.’

At the word Confidant Henrietta looked a little confused; but the lady, who did not observe her emotion, reclined her head upon her hand, and, fixing her eyes on her glass to see how this pensive attitude became her.

‘I am certainly (pursued she, sighing) the most unfortunate woman in the world—Benson, if you would be happy, never marry.’

‘I have no thought of marriage at present, madam,’ said Henrietta.

"Ah, how I envy your freedom," said the antiquated fair; ‘you are plagued with no unreasonable jealousy. Benson, you will not be here long before you are a witness to my persecutions. I wish I could conceal them, but that is impossible.’

"I am sorry, madam," said Henrietta, who was under a necessity of saying something in answer to this strange stuff, ‘to hear that you have any thing to make you uneasy.’

"It does not signify," exclaimed the lady, with an emotion which she herself took to be real; ‘I shall be choaked if I don't speak; may I depend upon your prudence, Benson!—But I know I may. Well then, you must know there is a poor young fellow who pretends— But why do I say pretends—who is desperately —what shall I call it—who has an unconquerable, invincible, hopeless, fatal, dying passion for—for me, in short. Is not this a shocking thing?’

"Indeed! madam," replied Henrietta, with great truth, "I pity you extremely."

"Ay, am I not greatly to be pitied, child?" said the lady. ‘Then the poor wretch cannot conceal his solly; and it makes Mr. Autumn so uneasy, that really his temper is intolerable.’

"Pardon me, madam," said Henrietta; ‘but I am not surprised that Mr. Autumn is uneasy at such folly as you justly call it.’

"Why, to be sure it is folly," said Mrs. Autum: ‘but then, if one reflects a little— It is not folly neither— for love, you know, is an involuntary passion. So that— but you have a very unfeeling heart, Benson; and yet, to judge by your looks, you should have great sensibility. Pray, have you never felt the tender passion?’

"If you mean love, madam," replied Henrietta; "indeed I cannot say I have."

"Well, you will be a happy creature," said the lady, sighing, ‘if you can always maintain this indifference: but poor Languish must not expect to meet with much compassion from you. Poor wretch! (continued she, laughing) I cannot help triumphing a little. I have nick-named him Languish from his eternal sighing, and the melancholy roll of his eyes. Mr. Autumn cannot endure to hear me call him by this name; but I love to plague him a little now and then: what signifies power, if one does not shew one has it. Yet he ought to be satisfied with me for what I did this evening, when Languish indiscreetly betrayed the violence of his passion, by eagerly running (though there were two gentlemen nearer) to take up my glove which I had dropped: I took no notice of the dying air with which he presented it to me; but, as if his touch had polluted it, I received it haughtily from him, and threw it aside. Sure this instance of disdain was enough to satisfy a jealous husband; yet mine, instead of looking pleased, coloured with jealousy and rage, and gave me such furious glances: however, this will always be the case, where there is so great a disproportion in age; Mr. Autumn is not less than forty. But hey day! is the girl asleep?’ continued she, looking at Henrietta, who stood fixed in thought; for the absurd affectation of her mistress gave her matter enough for reflection. ‘Come, undress me; Mr. Autumn will wonder at my long stay, and as he is ingenious in tormenting himself, he will possibly suspect that I have been reading a letter from this rival of his; but there he over-rates his presumption, he has not ventured to write to me yet, his passion is only expressed in sighs and looks.’

Henrietta made haste to obey her, her patience being almost exhausted; for Mrs. Autumn had got on a subject which she knew not how to quit, and her women being the only persons to whom she could utter these extravagancies, without any danger of being mortified with sarcastick hints of age, and such envious and unjust reflections, she made herself amends with them, for the reserve she was much against her will obliged to maintain with others.

Henrietta was at length ordered to wait on her to her chamber, and soon after retired to her own, greatly out of humour with her mistress, and not a little displeased at herself, to find that her philosophy, by which she was enabled to bear the change of her fortune with patience and resignation, could not guard her against •••fulness and disgust at the follies she was •eed to be witness to.

Mrs. Autumn, like other modern 〈◊〉, lay in bed always till it was very late this being one of those happy expedients for killing time (as the fashionable phrase is) which, to discover, employs the inventions of persons of rank and fortune. Henrietta had attended three whole hours in her lady's dressing-room, in expectation every moment of being summoned to assist her to rise, when Mr. Autumn at length entered the room.

His servant, while he was dressing him, had told him, that his lady's new woman, whom he had a glympse of as he passed by her on the stairs, was the greatest beauty he ever beheld; so that being curious to see her, he came to breakfast with his wife that morning.

Henrietta rose up at his entrance; Mr. Autumn bowed, looked at her attentively, and thought his man had taste. But he was still more struck with her noble air than the charms of her face, and felt an uneasy emotion when he saw her continue standing, with that humble respect, which, although it became her situation, seemed little suited to the dignity of her appearance. ‘Is not Mrs. Autumn up, madam?’ said he, not being able to forbear using that respectful style. Henrietta, supposing he did not know her rank in his family, replied,

‘I expect my lady will ring every moment, sir.’

‘Pray let her know that I am come to breakfast with her,’ said Mr. Autumn.

Henrietta went immediately into her lady's chamber, and, finding her awake, delivered her message.

"Lord bless me!" said Mrs. Autumn, ‘what new whim is this? He does not use to invade my apartment in a morning: I suppose he is come to teaze me with some of his jealous fancies. Well, since it must be so, order breakfast to be sent in, and come to me directly.’

What a ridiculous woman is this, thought Henrietta,, as she went out of the room, to torment, herself at her age with the notion of her husband being jealous of her.

The good lady, when she returned, charged her not to leave the room while they were at breakfast. ‘Your presence (said she) may perhaps be some restraint upon him.’

She then slipped on a night-gown, and went in a frightful dishabille to attend her complaisant spouse; for she was one of those ladies who dress for every body but their husbands.

Henrietta was not sorry that she was directed to wait, for she was extremely desirous of knowing whether her lady had any reason for the uneasiness she expressed. Mr. Autumn's good humour and complaisance soon put that matter out of doubt; but Mrs. Autumn was resolved to persuade her maid that her husband was jealous, and laughing affectedly, cried,

‘Well, don't be chagrined, Mr. Autumn, but I protest I dreamt of poor Languish last night.’

The husband shook his head, winked at his wise, and pointed to Henrietta, as if he had said, don't expose yourself before your new servant.

"Why, how you frown now!" pursued Mrs. Autumn; ‘I knew you would be angry. Lord! what does it signify of whom one dreams: one does not always think of the persons one dreams of. I wish I had not told you.’

"I wish you had not," said Mr. Autumn, biting his lip with vexation at her folly. The lady then lowering her voice, as if she was not willing to be heard by Henrietta, tho' she took care not to make it impossible, repeated,

"Trifles, light as air,

"Are to the jealous, confirmations strong

"As proofs of holy writ."

"You are well read in Shakespear, madam," said Mr. Autumn, who was willing to give another turn to the discourse.

"Oh!" exclaimed she, ‘he has touched the passion of jealousy finely in his character of Othello; I think the Moor was uneasy about a dream too.’

Just then somebody tapped at the door, Henrietta opened it; one of the footmen delivered a message from one lady, enquiring how Mrs. Autumn did, and a sealed-up card from another.

While the servant was speaking, Mrs. Autumn called out, what makes the fellow whisper in that manner, as if the message he brings was a secret? Henrietta delivered her the card, which she threw upon the table without opening it. ‘I am resolved (said she) to turn that blockhead away; his mysterious manner is enough to put strange fancies into people's heads.’

"The strange fancies are all your own," said Mr. Autumn, peevishly.

"I thought it would be so," cried the lady, ‘you are out of humour. What is this sealed up card the grievance? come, we will open it, and you shall know the contents.’

"Indeed I will not," said Mr. Autumn rising; ‘I have not the least curiosity about the contents—Good morning to you, my dear, I am going out.’

"Well, Benson," said Mrs. Autumn, as soon as her husband had left the room; ‘is not this a comfortable life I live? what a passion that poor man is in!’

"Was Mr. Autumn angry, madam?" said Henrietta.

"To be sure he was," said the lady; ‘did you not observe it?’

"Indeed, madam," replied Henrietta, ‘Mr. Autumn did not seem to me to be angry.’

"No, really!" said Mrs. Autumn; ‘you have a great deal of penetration, it must be confessed— You think you are very discreet now, but you are mistaken. However, I charge you, don't gossip among your companions about Mr. Autumn's unhappy jealousy; I don't want the world to know what I suffer upon that account.’

‘I never will mention it, madam, to any body,’ replied Henrietta.

"Nay, for that matter," said Mrs. Autumn, ‘you might mention it without any bad intention, by way of pitying me, or so; and perhaps I should not think the worse of you. But if you can be silent, Benson, you will oblige me; reports of this kind, you know, should not be circulated.’

"They never shall by me, madam," said Henrietta.

"Enough, enough," cried Mrs. Autumn, hastily; "I hate long speeches."

Henrietta was pleased with a declaration which enjoined her silence; for if it be tiresome to listen to the sallies of affectation and impertinence, it •e much more so to be obliged to answer them.

CHAP. IV.

Gives the reader hopes of a favourable change in the circumstances of our fair heresie.

HEnrietta had exercised her patience for some weeks in the service of Mrs. Autumn; but every day producing new instances of her folly, she resolved to quit her as soon as the countess came to town. She conceived she was in some degree accountable to that lady for her actions, since it was through her recommendation, that she had been introduced to Mrs. Autumn; and she thought it neccessary for the justification of her conduct, to have so considerable a witness of its being irreproachable.

Her lady, though she found herself always disappointed in that complaisance to her whims which she endeavoured to exact from her, yet ventured to make her a proposal, which her own want of delicacy hindered her from seeing the impropriety of.

She had taken it into her head to try her supposed lover's constancy, and therefore wrote a letter to him, in the character of a lady unknown, on whose heart he had made a deep impression, but who was resolved not to discover herself till she knew whether his was wholly disengaged.

This letter, she doubted not, would produce a declaration that would afford matter of great triumph to herself, who she suspected was the secret object of his adoration.

She acquainted her woman with her scheme, and gravely desired her to copy the letter, for Languish, she said, knew her hand.

Henrietta blushed with surprise and shame at this improper request, and very frankly begged to be excused from complying with it.

"What!" said Mrs. Autumn, a little confused; "you dispute my commands then!"

‘I never refused to obey any of your commands before, madam,’ replied Henrietta; ‘but this, pardon me, madam, appears so strange.’

‘You do not dare to suspect my virtue, I hope,’ said Mrs. Autumn, in a lofty accent.

"It does not become me, madam," said Henrietta, "to censure your actions."

"No, certainly," replied the lady, ‘nor to refuse to do any thing that I order you to do: but I would fain know if you, in your great wisdom, think there is anything improper in this little piece of gallantry.’

"My opinion is of no consequence, madam," replied Henrietta; ‘I only beg to be excused from copying it.’

"Well, no more of the letter." cried Mrs. Autumn, hastily: ‘perhaps I had only a mind to try your discretion; perhaps too I shall like you the better for your steadiness— Be modest and reserved, and you will be sure of my approbation. Were you the best servant in the world, you would not do for me, unless you were extremely modest. And now you know my mind, be cautious how you behave: modesty is a sure recommendation to my favour; I can pardon any fault in my servant but want of modesty.’

Henrietta, from this declaration, had reason to think herself pretty sure of her lady's favour: for the severest prude that ever declaimed against the monstrous levity of her own sex, could not have objected to the propriety of her behaviour; but, unhappily for her, she was that very day guilty of a fault by which she incurred very shocking suspicions: for having neglected to •ill her lady's smelling-bottle with some fresh Eau de Luce, Mrs. Autumn declared that such heedlessness must necessarily proceed from her having her thoughts continually employed upon fellows; and telling her, that she could not endure such a creature in her sight, ordered her to be gone immediately.

Henrietta did not think proper to offer any answer to this strange charge; but quitting her presence immediately, and her house a few moments afterwards, she returned to Mrs. Willis, who, seeing her alight at her door, eagerly flew to receive her.

"I have great news for you, my dear miss," said she, ‘I was this moment preparing to set out in a coach to bring you a letter, which was left here by one of your uncle's servants. It is very true,’ pursued she, seeing Henrietta looked surprised. ‘I asked the young man, who he came from? and he said, the earl of —. You may believe I am impatient to know the contents of this letter. Come, my dear, and read it; I hope all your troubles are over now.’

Henrietta receiving the letter from her, which she took out of her pocket, followed her into the parlour, and breaking the seal,

‘It is my uncle's hand, indeed (said she) and this is what he writes.’

‘Mrs. Courteney is desired to call at the earl of—, to-morrow morning at twelve o'clock, he has something to propose to her for her advantage.’

"Did I not tell you, miss," said Mrs. Willis, exultingly, ‘that the step you had taken would produce a favourable change in your fortune?’

‘Don't be too sanguine in your expectations, my dear Mrs. Willis,’ said miss Courteney; ‘who knows but my uncle may have another sir Isaac Darby to propose to me: however, I will certainly wait upon him, and, if possible, will be punctual to the hour he has prescribed me; but if nothing should come of this overture of his lordship's, I shall be your guest again for some time. I have left Mrs. Autumn.’

She then related to her some circumstances of that lady's extravagant folly, and the cause and manner of their parting, which, together with their comments on lord—'s message, furnished them with matter sufficient for discourse during the remainder of that day: what happened to our fair heroine the next, will be found in the following chapter.

CHAP. V.

Destroys the expectations raised by the foregoing chapter.

HEnrietta was at her uncle's house exactly at the hour prescribed her; and, upon sending in her name, was desired to walk into his lordship's library.

The earl was there to receive her: he had with him two of his daughters; but these young ladies withdrew immediately, after saluting her in a very distant manner, which she returned with equal reserve and coldness.

"Miss Courteney," said his lordship, as soon as they were alone, ‘I have been extremely angry with you for leaving your aunt in the strange manner you did.’

"I am extremely obliged to your lordship," replied Henrietta, ‘for taking so much interest in any thing that concerns me.’

"You certainly acted very indiscreetly," said the earl; ‘but what is past, cannot be helped. You have had the good luck to make yourself friends, notwithstanding this wrong step. You have been at the countess of—'s seat, I hear.’

"Yes, my lord," answered Henrietta: ‘I was there with—’

"The countess is very much your friend," interrupted his lordship, hastily, ‘but her son is more so.’

Henrietta blushed, and was silent.

"I will not," pursued his lordship, ‘examine into your motives for leaving lady Meadows; but I will, if possible, accommodate matters between you, provided you will concur with me in my endeavours for that purpose.’

‘I desire nothing more earnestly than to be reconciled to my aunt,’ replied Henrietta.

‘I believe it will be your own fault if you are not,’ resumed his lordship; ‘and if you recover her savour, your good fortune will not stop there—To keep you no longer in suspence then, lord B— has declared a passion for you, and has solicited my interest towards effecting a reconciliation between your aunt and you, that he may pay his addresses to you in a proper manner.’

‘I am surprised that lord B— should make such a proposal,’ said Henrietta, ‘he is engaged to the daughter of a rich citizen.’

"No, not engaged," replied the earl; ‘the match has been proposed, and he has visited the young woman.’

"Indeed, my lord," replied Henrietta, ‘the affair is much further advanced.’

"Well, well," interrupted his lordship, ‘we will suppose that the writings are drawn and every thing settled; but they are not married, nor engaged neither.’

‘His inclinations, you find, have taken another turn: you have no reason to blame him for this, I am sure; and it would be strange indeed if a man of his rank and fortune was to mind the censures of the vulgar.’

Henrietta was silent. His lordship proceeded,

‘Lord B— will find it difficult, no doubt, to prevail upon the earl to break off this treaty, and consent to his marrying you, though lady Meadows should offer to make you her heir; because in that case your fortune would be greatly below that of this citizen, whom he has chose for him. Nevertheless, he does not despair of effecting this, provided your aunt will do for you what it was expected she would before you was so unhappy as to disoblige her. In this lord B— sufficiently shews the sincerity and ardor of his passion, it is your part now to convince him that you are not ungrateful.’

"What would your lordship have me to do?" said Henrietta.

"I would have you submit to your aunt," said the earl, ‘and regain her affection, if possible▪ Lord B— has reason to expect this compliance from you.’

"I will do every thing I ought to do," replied Henrietta, ‘to recover my aunt's favour, and this without any view to lord B— offers.’

‘Well, we shall not examine too nicely into that matter,’ interrupted his lordship smiling. ‘All that remains to be done, is this I will see lady Meadows myself, she will • in town soon, I suppose; lord B—'s proposal, which I will acquaint her with, w• captivate her attention, and be your best justification. As for what little concessions s• may expect from you, I shall leave them •• be settled by yourselves.’

"There are certain concessions, however said Henrietta, ‘which it is impossible for • to make, and which, if my aunt insists up as the necessary conditions of a reconciliation between us, I must still continue under • displeasure, and hazard all the consequences of it.’

‘I am afraid you are going to say some silly thing or other,’ interrupted his lordship, rising from his seat; which motion Henrietta understanding as a hint for her to hasten her departure, rose also.

"I will detain your lordship no longer," said she, ‘than just to tell you that some time ago my aunt proposed to me to settle all her fortune upon me, provided I would embrace the Roman catholick religion.’

"A noble offer, upon my honour!" said his lordship, "and did you refuse it?"

‘Would your lordship have had me accept of it?’ said Henrietta.

‘What signifies what I would have had you do,’ replied the earl, peevishly. ‘What did the consideration of your own interest suggest to you?’

"To refuse it, my lord," answered Henrietta, "and I did so."

"I find you are a very romantick girl," said his lordship; ‘I am resolved to trouble myself no more about your affairs.’

‘I hope it will not be imputed to me as a crime,’ said Henrietta, ‘that I could not be bribed to change my religion.’

"Change your religion!" repeated the earl, ‘what necessity was there for your changing your religion: you might have humoured the old woman, have gone with her to mass, and conformed to some of her superstitious ceremonies, and be a good protestant in your heart notwithstanding; the world, knowing your motives, would have commended you for such a prudent conduct—I see there is nothing to be done with you,’ pursued he, after a little pause. ‘For the sake of the unfortunate man, who was your father, I would have been glad to have seen you well married; but lord B— is not such a fool as to take you without a fortune; and as you cannot reasonably have any expectations but from lady Meadows, who has no children, and may leave her fortune to whom she pleases, without doing any body injustice, you know best whether it is worth your while to make a proper submission to her or not.’

"I will never make an improper one," said Henrietta.

"To be sure," said his lordship, ‘your own wisdom is to be judge of that.’

"No, my lord," replied Henrietta; ‘you shall if you please be judge— if my conscience—’

‘Pray, let me hear nothing about your conscience,’ interrupted the earl; ‘it is not my business to let matters even between you and your conscience: your aunt's popish confessor, who is likely to be her heir, is skilful in those things; yet I would not advise you to consult him neither, for he is an interested person: but remember, that you may either secure to yourself a good estate, and marry a very deserving young nobleman, or continue in the obscurity and want your father left you in, which is all the legacy he bequeathed you. Think well of this, and then let your conscience determine, I do not advise you to do any thing against it.’

"My resolution is already fixed," said Henrietta; ‘my conscience will neither permit me to change my religion, nor to counterfeit a change of it.’

"Do you insinuate by that," said his lordship, hastily, ‘that I advised you to do either the one or the other?’

"My aunt already knows my mind," said Henrietta, evading a question which she could not answer truly without offending him; ‘I have nothing to hope for from your lordship's interposition, unless she has been pleased to give up this point; and I shall chearfully return to that poverty my father bequeathed me, since with it he bequeathed me piety and virtue.’

‘It is a pity he did not leave you prudence also,’ said the earl, who found something very provoking in this last speech, ‘you would not then have disobliged your aunt by you• scandalous elopement from her, which ha• reduced you to the miserable condition you are now in, so that your friends know no• how to take notice of you.’

"Friends! my lord," replied Henrietta, rising in her temper; ‘I have no friends, I have only relations.’

"That is likely to be their misfortune," sai• his lordship, who was very angry at this sarcasm ‘your undutifulness to your aunt makes you unworthy of the notice of your relations and I declare to you plainly, that from the moment I will never concern myself abo•• you.’

Henrietta disdained to make any answer this unjust and cruel speech; but courtefied silence, and withdrew? leaving the earl very well satisfied with himself for the tender and parental part he had acted towards his brother's daughter, and furnished with excellent reasons for never seeing her more.

"I had provided a match for her," said he, that very evening, to an humble friend, who he knew would not fail to spread the report, ‘not unworthy of a daughter of my own. She rejected my proposal. She refused to make any submission to her aunt, whom I would have prevailed upon to be reconciled to her. Let her suffer the consequences of her obstinacy and folly; I have done all that I ought to do, and am justified to the world.’

His lordship forgot to add, that the submission which was expected from her was nothing more than the change of her religion, and the match she so obstinately refused, could not be effected without she purchased a fortune by an impious hypocrisy. Nevertheless the omission of these trifling circumstances gave such a colour to Henrietta's behaviour, that she was considered by all, who heard her uncle's account of it, as an unhappy young creature, who would ruin herself, and be the blot of a noble family.

As for our fair heroine, she foresaw that her uncle would justify his neglect of her at her expence. She had every thing against her; rank, fortune, power; that general prejudice which prevails against the unfortunate, and that as general servility which adopts the passions of the great. But these reflections filled her with no uneasy apprehensions; for there is this advantage in virtue, that it is sufficient for itself, and needs not the applause or support of others, its own consciousness is its best reward.

CHAP. VI.

In which lord B—shews himself a true modern lover.

HEnrietta, before she went home, waited upon lady D—, to acquaint her that she had left Mrs. Autumn. She avoided mentioning that lady's peculiarities which had made it impossible to please her; but with great simplicity related the error she had been guilty of, and the suspicions she had incurred by it, which occasioned her dismission.

Lady D— diverted herself for some time with the extreme delicacy of her whimsical friend, and then told Henrietta, that having still a good opinion of her prudence and modesty, notwithstanding the reasons Mrs. Autumn had to suspect her, she would place her about a young lady, a relation of her own.

Henrietta thanked her in very respectful terms, and took her leave, after she had, at lady D—'s desire, left her a direction to her lodgings, that she might know where to send for her when it was necessary.

At her return, she found the faithful Mrs. Willis full of anxious impatience to hear the success of her visit to the earl. Henrietta, thro' respect to her uncle, concealed the greatest part of his discourse to her, but owned that she had no expectations from him.

Mrs. Willis shrugged up her shoulders: ‘Then it was as you suspected (said she) your uncle has proposed some absurd match to you, and you have forfeited his future favour by not complying with it.’

‘You will be surprised to hear that lord B— has made an application to my uncle,’ said Henrietta.

"Surprised!" repeated Mrs. Willis; ‘why, to be sure, considering how your affairs are circumstanced, this is a generous way of proceeding. Well, I hope you begin now to have a favourable opinion both of his love and honour.’

"I am sure I think highly of his prudence," replied Henrietta, smiling: ‘only mark the caution with which he acts in this affair; my poverty gave him hopes that I should be an easy conquest, and that passion which first manifested itself in an open attempt upon my honour, sought afterwards to allure me with bribes. It is not strange that persons who hold money to be the greatest good, should think it more than an equivalent for virtue. Here, however, he was disappointed again, to his great astonishment, no doubt, and marriage is this honourable lover's last resource; but this he does not offer till he is sure I shall have a fortune, if not equal to that of my rival the packer's daughter, yet at least sufficient to justify his choice in 〈◊〉 opinion of the prudential part of the world: and perhaps he expects I should purchase the mighty blessing of his hand by the sacrifice, the temporary sacrifice at least of those principles, for which I have already suffered so much.’

‘Have you any reason for this shocking suspicion?’ interrupted Mrs. Willis.

"I think I have," replied Henrietta: ‘a reconciliation with my aunt is, it seems, a necessary preliminary to his addresses; and yet he heard from myself upon what condition that reconciliation could only be effected.’ Henrietta, suddenly interrupting herself, cried out, ‘There he is; there is lord B—.’

"Where? where?" said Mrs. Willis, running to the window. "It is certainly he," said Henrietta, "he passed by in a chair.

That instant they heard a loud rap at the door.

"As I live," cried Mrs. Willis (in a violent flutter) ‘he is come to visit you. I hope you will see him, miss Courteney; hear what he has to say, pray do; there can be no harm in that, I am sure.’

"Well, well," said Henrietta, smiling at her solicitude; ‘I will see him; let him be shewn into the other parlour, if you please.’

Mrs. Willis, curious to see this young lord, went herself to open the door. He bolted out of the chair; and, with a look and accent full of impatience, asked her, if the young lady that lodged there was at home?"

"Miss Courteney, sir?" said Mrs. Willis.

"Yes," replied he, hastily; ‘is she at home, can I see her? Pray tell her a gentleman from —, enquires for her.’

Mrs. Willis desired him to walk into the parlour, said she would acquaint the young lady with his being there; and a few moments afterwards Henrietta appeared.

Lord B— flew to meet her, with the air of a lover conscious of the right he had to be well received; and, taking her hand, which he respectfully kissed,

"Now," cried he, exultingly, ‘can you doubt the ardor of my passion for you? and will you not at length confess that it is possible for a man to deserve you?’

"Certainly; my lord," replied Henrietta, "it is very possible."

‘May I perish if I think so (said he) but how poorly would words express my adoration of you. Judge of the purity, the ardor of my love, by what I have done to make you mine—Have you not seen your uncle, miss Courteney?’

"I have, my lord," replied Henrietta.

"You have!" repeated his lordship; ‘and in that grave cold accent too. Surely my sentiments and designs are still unknown to you: it is impossible else that you should be thus insensible, nay ungrateful, I will say— for I have given no common proofs of love, I think.’

"Indeed, my lord," replied Henrietta, who had a mind to teaze this generous lover a little, ‘you shall not suffer for your noble disinterestedness— you shall not relinquish miss Cordwain and her immense fortune for me.’

"Name not her fortune," cried lord B—; "were it millions I would refuse it for you."

‘Nay, now your lordship is quite romantick,’ said Henrietta, ‘to prefer to a rich heiress an unhappy young woman, deserted by her relations, and reduced to seek a subsistence by her labour.’

"Call not my passion romantick," interrupted lord B—, ‘because it soars above common conceptions: a mind so elevated as your's might give it a juster epithet.’

"Were my aunt," pursued Henrietta, ‘to leave me her whole estate, you would still make no inconsiderable sacrifice by quitting miss Cordwain for me, since my fortune would then be greatly inferior to her's. But you know, my lord, I have no expectations from lady Meadows: I have declared to my uncle the hard conditions upon which she offers to make me her heir, conditions that I never will accept of; and therefore I may well call your passion romantick, when, under such circumstances, you could think of making an application to my uncle.’

"To be sure, madam," said lord B—, whose countenance expressed at once surprise, confusion, and disappointment— ‘I did apply to the earl, not personally indeed. I contrived it so that a friend of mine, who is very intimate with his lordship, should give him a hint of your situation, and the sentiments I entertained for you: and, from the account my friend gave me of his success in his negotiation, I conceived that you might be prevailed upon—that is, that you would consider— For might I not hope, my dear miss Courteney, that you would not be insensible of my affection.’

Here his lordship paused, and looked on Henrietta with a languishing air, seeming to wish and expect that her tenderness would spare him a further explanation; but our fair heroine who did not chuse to collect his meaning from the abrupt and inconnected sentences he had uttered, continued maliciously silent, as if she waited for the end of his discourse.

‘I see (resumed he) that I have not been happy enough to inspire you with any tender sentiments for me. Pardon me, miss Courteney, but I must be so free as to tell you that if you were not prepossessed in favour of another person, the proofs I have given you of my affection would not be received with such indifference.’

"There needs not any such prepossession," replied Henrietta, vexed at this hint, ‘to make me receive with indifference the proofs you have hitherto given me of that affection your lordship boasts of. Am I to reckon among these proofs, my lord, the insult you offered me at Mrs. Eccles's, and the strange declaration you made me in the country?’

"Ah, how cruel is this recapitulation now!" cried lord B—: ‘do I not do justice to your birth, your beauty and virtue, by my present honourable intentions?’

"It is not enough for me, my lord," said Henrietta, ‘that your intentions are honourable now; to have merited my esteem, they should always have been so: but, to speak plainly, I am still doubtful of your intentions.’

"Doubtful still of my intentions!" repeated lord B—: ‘have I not declared them to your uncle, madam? have I not solicited his interest with you?’

"Suppose that obtained my lord," said Henrietta, ‘and that it has all the weight with me you could wish.’

"Why then we shall be happy, my angel," cried he, taking her hand, and pressing it to his lips. ‘You will be reconciled to your aunt, and I may hope for my father's consent to our union.’

‘A reconciliation with my aunt is impossible,’ said Henrietta, withdrawing her hand.

"Say not that it is impossible," replied lord B—, ‘but that you have not complaisance enough for me, to attempt it.’

"Did I not know it to be impossible," resumed Henrietta, ‘I would attempt it for my own sake; but nothing less than the sacrifice of my religion will satisfy my aunt: on this condition indeed she promises to settle her whole estate upon me; I think I once told your lordship so.’

"You did, my dear miss Courteney," interrupted lord B—; ‘and I adore you for your steady adherence to your principles.’

Henrietta was a little startled at so unexpected a declaration; but lord B—did not suffer her to remain long in the error his last words had occasioned.

"If lady Meadows was not such a bigot," pursued he, ‘excuse my freedom, miss, we might expect that she would receive my proposals with pleasure, and make such concessions in favour of her niece, as might engage my father's consent to our marriage: but since this is hopeless, is it reasonable that you should be the victim of her obstinacy? by seeming only to comply with your aunt's desires, all obstacles to our union will be removed; a temporary compliance is all that is necessary to secure to you a fortune, and a rank in life suitable to your birth. Do not imagine that I wish to see you a proselyte to the religion she professes: no, if any thing could weaken my passion, your being capable of such a change, upon interested motives, would do it. I love you; I repeat it again, I love you for your piety.’

"Then, to be sure, my lord," replied Henrietta, ‘you think that a little dissimulation in this case would be a virtue.’

"In your circumstances," resumed lord B—, ‘it certainly would; for while your principles are unchanged, what do you sacrifice, in yielding to your aunt, but externals only? this sacrifice your interest, your happiness demands of you; let me add also that you owe it to a man who loves you with the ardor I do. And surely, to industriously seek occasions of suffering for a religion, which, if you could be contented with secretly professing, you would be happy yourself, and make others happy also, is to give the world reason to suspect that ostentation has a greater share in your resolves than piety. Therefore, my dear miss Courteney, you see it is not the sacrifice of your religion that I require of you, but of the reputation of suffering for it.’

"Well, my lord," replied Henrietta, who had listened to him with great calmness, ‘if ever I was in doubt of your intentions, you have clearly explained them now; of them, and of the sentiments you have avowed, you may collect my opinion, when I declare to you, that if you had worlds to bestow on me, I would not be your wife.’

"Is this your resolution, miss Courteney?" said his lordship.

‘It is, my lord (she replied). A resolution justifiable upon your own great principle interest. It is my interest I consult, when I prefer poverty and servitude to the fortune my aunt can give me; because the silent testimony of a quiet conscience is, in my opinion, of infinitely more value than riches. It is interest by which I am influenced, when I refuse your offered alliance, because I am sure I could not be happy with a man whom I cannot esteem.’

"Hold, madam, hold," interrupted lord B—, ‘this is too much: I have not deserved this treatment, but I thank you for it; yes, from my soul I thank you for it: it has helped to restore my senses; I have been foolish, very foolish, I confess.’

His lordship indeed looked foolish enough when he pronounced these words, which were succeeded by a pause of several minutes: then suddenly starting from his seat, and bowing with an affected negligence,

‘The best apology I can make, madam (said he) for the importunate visit I have paid you, is to assure you I never will repeat it.’

Henrietta courtefied gravely without answering him; and having rung the bell for a servant to attend him to the door, went into the room where her friend was sitting. Lord B— stopped, looked back, and, finding she had withdrawn, he rushed out hastily, and flung himself into his chair, glad of his escape, and congratulating himself upon the victory he had gained over his passion; for, in the first emotions of his grief at parting, he had almost resolved to declare he would marry her without any fortune: but her disappearing so suddenly, gave him time for a moment's reflection, and that was sufficient to hinder him from being guilty of an imprudence which he now trembled at the thoughts of.

It is so difficult for mean and selfish persons to conceive that any thing but private advantage can influence the resolutions of others, that notwithstanding the proof Henrietta had given of her attachment to her religion, and her inviolable regard to truth, yet still lord B— supposed there must be some other latent motive for a conduct, in his opinion, highly ridiculous, and very inconsistent with that good sense which it was apparent she possessed.

Sometimes he fancied he had a rival; and then, to clear a doubt so tormenting, he was upon the point of returning to her to offer her his hand upon her own conditions: but his avarice restrained him from making so dangerous a trial: she might accept his offer; and with all the passion he felt for her, he could not resolve to marry her without a fortune.

To stifle a thought which suggested to him designs so destructive to his interest, he endeavoured to persuade himself that her obstinacy, in refusing to temporize a little when such mighty advantages were in view, was the effect of female vanity, which sought distinction at the expence of solid happiness. In this opinion he was confirmed by his friend, whom he had employed to sound the earl her uncle with regard to his proposals, and to whom he now communicated the result of his interview with Henrietta.

"Depend upon it," said this sagacious person, ‘your goddess will descend from her romantick flights, when she finds she has almost soared out of human ken; and is much more likely to be laughed at for her extravagant folly, than admired and applauded for her extraordinary piety. Follow my advice (pursued he) suffer your mistress to believe you have broke her chains; if interest does not make her wish to recall you, vanity will. Few women can endure that a lover should escape them; and, to recover their influence, they often make concessions, which, in the zenith of their power, they would have thought impossible.’

Lord B—improved a little upon his friend's scheme, and resolved to continue his addresses to miss Cordwain, to pique Henrietta, he said; but in reality, he was as much in love with the fortune of that young lady, as with the person of our fair heroine; and was not willing to hazard the loss of the one, while it was yet doubtful whether he should ever possess the other.

CHAP. VII.

Which concludes the fourth book of this history.

HEnrietta having acquainted Mrs. Willis with what had passed in her interview with lord B—, the good woman, who ha• flattered herself that the affair would have end• more happily (tho' more honourably it could not) for her fair friend, conjured her, with tears of anxious tenderness, not to think • going to service again, but to allow the countess, whom her conduct with regard to her so must necessarily oblige very highly, to empl• her good offices with lady Meadows in her •••vour, that a reconciliation might be effected, without those shocking conditions which had at first been proposed to her.

‘If I thought such an application would be successful,’ replied Henrietta, ‘I would readily consent to it. For you may easily imagine, my dear Mrs. Willis, that this low condition is not my choice: but I know my aunt's temper; whatever she desires, she desires with ardor; and makes a merit at persisting obstinately in a resolution she has once formed. Her pride will be a more powerful advocate for me, than any thing the countess can urge; to that I formerly owed my deliverance from dependence, more mortifying than servitude. This pride will no doubt be sensibly wounded, when she finds that I am determined in my choice; if any thing can make her recede from her purpose, it will be the shame of seeing her niece reduced so low. But surely it is not the way to convince her I am really determined, if I allow my friends to teaze her with solicitations, when she has already declared her resolution in such strong terms: she will believe that I have engaged them to make this trial; she will be offended with their interposition, and perhaps be the less inclined to raise me from this obscure condition, as she will not have the merit of doing it from her own generosity and tenderness, but at the instances of others: time only, my dear Mrs. Willis, can produce any favourable change in my circumstances; it will either soften the hearts of my relations, or it will blunt my sense of the meanness of my condition, by familiarizing me to it. This I am sure of at least, that, in the consciousness of doing right, I shall always find an unfailing source of happiness, however Providence may think fit to dispose of me.’

‘Ah, never doubt but you are the care of Providence, my dear miss,’ cried Mrs. Willis, ‘such virtue and piety must sooner or later be happy: Heaven and your own prudence direct you.’

"I have not always been prudent," said Henrietta, sighing; ‘but misfortunes, as you once told me, teach us wisdom.’

Mrs. Willis, observing an unusual pensiveness stealing over the sweet features of Henrietta or this reflection, changed the discourse to a less interesting subject, and employed her utmost assiduity and tenderness to make the time she stayed with her pass agreeably.

A week being elapsed, and no message coming from lady D—, Henrietta began to apprehend that she should be disappointed of a place, in which she expected more satisfaction than she had found in those she had hitherto been in, when she was surprised with a visit from the countess of—.

She flew to receive her with a respectful joy. The lady tenderly pressed her hand—

‘I had business in the city (said she) and I took this opportunity to call on you—and how do you do, my dear good girl? (pursued she) have you any agreeable news to tell me? has your family relented yet?’

‘I have no reason to think they have, madam, replied Henrietta.’

"Shocking insensibility!" exclaimed the countess, lifting up her eyes; ‘you have been very ill used too by Mrs. Autumn, my sister tells me.’

Henrietta smiled, but was silent.

"Well, miss Courteney," resumed the countess, ‘will you come and live with me as my friend and companion. I know your generous scorn of dependence; but it is the unworthiness of the donor only, that can make benefits sit heavy on a mind like your's: there is often as much greatness of soul in receiving as in conferring benefits; and when true friendship is the motive for giving, it is pride, not generosity, to refuse.’

"Do me the justice to believe▪ madam," replied Henrietta, ‘that I receive this instance of your goodness with the deepest gratitude, but there is—’

"I understand you," interrupted the countess— ‘my son; but I hope, when he is married, you will have no objection to living with me as my friend.’

The countess, in speaking these words, looked earnestly on Henrietta.

‘No, certainly, madam (cried she, eagerly I shall think myself happy in living with you in any situation.’

‘I know not what to think of my son's conduct in this affair,’ resumed the countess ‘every thing is settled between my lord and the young lady's father; but he still finds pre•tences to delay the match.’ Her eyes, as sh• pronounced these words, seemed to demand a explanation of Henrietta.

‘I am afraid, madam (replied she) that have been partly the cause of these delays.’

"That is candidly said," interrupted t• countess; "have you seen my son lately?"

"I have madam," answered Henrietta; ‘but your ladyship may be entirely easy.’

"Easy!" repeated the countess; ‘why do you imagine that I am so insensible of your merit—but you know, my good girl, lord B— is in honour engaged to miss Cordwain.’

"His lordship's partiality for me," said Henrietta, ‘has induced him to carry this matter further than (as he is circumstanced) I think he should have done. He has caused my uncle to be applied to; but this has produced nothing, madam. I told lord B— upon what conditions my aunt had offered to settle her estate upon me; and his lordship is convinced that I cannot comply with them. My resolution is fixed, my lord B— knows it is so, and you have nothing to fear, madam, from any imprudence on his side, or any ungenerosity on mine. I ventured to promise that I would deserve the confidence you was pleased to place in me on this occasion, and I hope I have and shall continue to deserve it.’

Notwithstanding the delicate manner in which Henrietta stated the affair between her and lord B—, yet the countess discovered that her son had shewn more prudence than generosity, or even love in his behaviour; and, by a strange contradiction in the human heart, she at once approved and condemned, was pleased with, yet ashamed of his conduct; but charmed with Henrietta's noble disinterestedness, her candour and sincerity, she embraced her with the tenderness of a mother, and perhaps with the more tenderness, because she was not likely she should not be her mother.

‘I am impatient (said she) till I can have you with me, that I may have it in my power to shew you how greatly I both love and esteem you.’

Henrietta thanked her with great politeness; and then told her of lady D—'s intentions to recommend her to a young lady, a relation of her's.

"Oh! miss Belmour, you mean," said the countess; ‘my sister mentioned it to me: she is an agreeable young woman, has a very good fortune, and is entirely mistress of herself She will be much better pleased to receive you in the character of a companion that a servant, when she knows your birth and merit.’

‘I will owe obligations of that kind to non but yourself, madam,’ replied Henrietta ‘and I beg this young lady may know no mor• of me than what is just necessary to recommend me to her good opinion as a servant.’

The countess contested this point with her for some time; but finding her not to be dissuaded from her design, "Well!" said she, kindly, ‘you shall be indulged this once, but remember I claim your promise to come to me when a certain objection is removed; in the mean time we will settle you with miss Belmour in the way you chuse. She will be with my sister to-morrow morning; and if you come likewise, lady D— will introduce you to her.’

Henrietta said she would not fail to attend lady D— Upon which the countess rose up, kissed her at parting, and desired she would look upon her as one of her most faithful friends.

Our fair heroine had reason to be satisfied with the kind manner in which lady D— recommended her to miss Belmour, as well as with the reception that young lady gave her. She carried her home with her in her coach, and behaved to her with an affability that Henrietta could no otherwise account for, than by suppossing the countess had discovered her true name and circumstances to her.— In this, however, she was mistaken: her young mistress was in love; she had occasion for a confidant. Henrietta's youth and gentleness promised her she would be an indulgent one: besides, her good sense and the elegance of her person and behaviour so lessened the distance between the mistress and servant, that her pride was not wounded by the familiarity with which she condescended to treat her, as the necessary prelude to the confidence she was resolved to repose in her.

Henrietta listened with complaisance to the overflowings of a heart tender by nature, and wholly possessed, as she thought, by a deserving object; but when miss Belmour, in the course of frequent conversations on this exhaustless theme, gave her to understand that this lover of whom she boasted was the husband of another lady, from whom he had been parted several years, surprise, horror, grief, were so strongly impressed on her countenance, that her lady be•gan to repent of a confession she had made, it full confidence that her sentiments, whatever they were, must needs be approved by her ser•vant.

But it being now useless as well as dangerou• to retract what she had said, she was under • necessity of submitting to the mortifying •a• of defending her conduct to one whole duty well as interest she had a moment before co•ceived it to be, to acquiesce in, or rather appla• all she did.

She began with telling Henrietta, that Mr. Campley had when very young, been forced, by an avaricious father to marry a woman whom he could not love, and with whom he had been so miserable, that a separation was agreed to by the relations on both sides.

Henrietta sighed sympathetically at this account. Miss Belmour, encouraged by this mark of her sensibility, proceeded with great fluency of language, to expatiate on the resistless power of love: her lover's sophistry had furnished her with arguments to prove, that the marriage he had been forced into was not binding in the sight of heaven, and that he was at liberty to bestow his affections elsewhere. She treated marriage as a mere human institution, adopted the sentiments of Eloisa, talked of a union of hearts, eternal constancy, generous confidence—Henrietta heard her with patience; but being out of breath at last, she stopped, and seemed to expect a reply.

Our fair heroine, with all the humility becoming her station, but at the same time with all the ••••ness of virtue, opposed the specious arguments she had urged with others which reason, religion, and the purity of her own sentiments suggested to her: these, however, made very little impression on miss Belmour. She yawned, smiled contemptuously, and was several times ready to interrupt her with an authoritative air, but refrained, from the consideration that her woman was now, by the participation of her secret, become her companion, if not something more.

Henrietta, despairing to rescue her unhappy mistress, by motives of piety, from the snares that were laid for her, sought even to interest her passions in the cause of virtue.

‘You depend, madam (pursued she) upon your lover's constancy; but what security can you have that he will be constant?’

"What security!" interrupted miss Belmour, roused to attention by so interesting a question; "his vows."

‘These vows, madam (said Henrietta) will expire with the passion that caused them: he will be constant as long as he loves, but how long he will love, is the doubt.’

"I am really vain enough to imagine," replied miss Belmour, bridling, ‘that those few attractions I have received from nature, since, they have gained, will fix his heart: I am quite free from any apprehensions of that sort, I can assure you.’

"You have charms, madam," said Henrietta, ‘that entitle you to a worthier conquest than of a man, who, not having it in his power to marry you, yet dishonourably seeks to ensnare your affections.’

‘It is natural to wish to be beloved by those we love,’ replied miss Belmour: ‘I am convinced Mr. Campley loves me.’

"If he loved you sincerely, madam," said Henrietta, ‘he would not make you unhappy; true love never seeks the ruin of its object: disinterestedness is the test of love; try Mr. Campley's by that.’

‘Mr. Campley has no mean, selfish designs upon my fortune,’ cried miss Belmour.

‘His designs are mean and selfish in the highest degree,’ replied Henrietta, ‘since he expects that to make him happy you should sacrifice your peace, your honour, and your reputation; and should he succeed in these designs, which heaven forbid, the neglect he will soon treat you with will convince you, that love, when not founded on esteem, cannot be lasting: for the contempt which even libertines feel for those whom they have seduced, is a proof of that secret homage which all men pay to virtue.’

‘If I thought Mr. Campley would ever fail in the respect and adoration he pays me now,’ said miss Belmour, "I should hate him."

‘The only way to preserve that respect, madam,’ replied Henrietta, ‘is not to allow him to encourage any presumptuous hopes: if you wish to keep his heart, engage his esteem; he may one time or other, perhaps, be at liberty to offer you his hand.’

"Ah, Henrietta!" interrupted miss Belmour, sighing, ‘that time is very distant, I fear: but you have put strange thoughts into my head; I have been to blame to suffer Mr. Campley to talk to me so freely of his passion: indeed I think he has been less respectful, since I suffered him to perceive that I presered him to all the men I ever saw. I own to you freely that it was my apprehensions of losing him that made me listen to his arguments; for I thought, if I reduced him to despair, he would conquer his passion for me: but what if the very means I have used to keep his heart should prove the cause of his slighting me!—Oh! you do not know what anxious, uneasy doubts you have raised in my mind!—However, I am resolved to behave with more reserve to him for the future. I will try whether his passion is strong enough to subsist of itself; for you have convinced me that the hopes with which I have hitherto fed it, have been less likely to nourish than to cloy.’

Henrietta would have been better pleased if sentiments more pure had suggested this design; but it was a great point gained to prevail with her on any terms to discourage the addresses of a man whose love was a crime. She flattered herself likewise that this unexpected severity in miss Belmour would produce an alteration in her unworthy lover's behaviour, which might favour her views of exciting her resentment against him; and in this she was not mistaken.

Mr. Campley thought fit to be offended at the new plan of conduct miss Belmour had laid down for herself, and complained of it at first with that mixture of haughtiness and submission which a man, who is sure he is beloved, thinks he has a right to use; but, finding this had not the effect he desired, he had recourse to a personated indifference, in order to alarm her with the fear of losing him.

Henrietta, whom she acquainted with every change in his behaviour, told her that this was the time to humble her imperious lover. ‘You must either give him laws, madam (said she) or be contented to receive them of him: his aim was to degrade you to a mistress; he will love you, you see, upon no other condition.’

"I see it! I see it plainly!" interrupted miss Belmour, bursting into tears; ‘where is now that aweful love he professed for me, when a look, a smile, was a sufficient reward for all his sufferings!—Dear Henrietta tell me what I shall do to shew him how much I hate and despise him.’

"Avoid him, madam, as much as possible," replied Henrietta. ‘When you happen to meet him in company, suffer him not to speak to you apart, and receive no letters from him; persist in this conduct, and you will convince him that you are resolved not to purchase the continuance of his affection by the sacrifice of your honour. If he is capable of a sincere and generous passion, he will esteem and reverence that virtue which opposes his desires; and his esteem will strengthen his love.’

"Yes," cried miss Belmour, ‘he shall find that he is not so sure of me as he has the presumption to imagine. I will tell him so myself, and see him again, but it shall be only to declare that I will never see him more—Give me pen and ink, my dear Henrietta: I will appoint him a meeting at lady D—'s this evening; and while the company is engaged at cards, I shall have an opportunity to tell him the resolution I have formed, and doubt no but I will speak to him in the severest term my resentment can suggest: he shall know, to his confusion, that I am in earnest.’

"Indeed, madam," said Henrietta, ‘that is not the way to persuade him that you are in earnest; let your actions speak for you; shun him carefully, and then he must be convinced that you do not feign.’

"I have thought of a way to torment him," said miss Belmour, after a little pause; ‘I will go to Paris. Last year some ladies of my acquaintance proposed to me to go there with them, and I had almost consented; but the wretch, who braves me so insolently now, declared then that he could not support my absence, and seemed so overwhelmed with grief that I put off my journey for that time: but now were he to offer to stab himself at my feet, it should not alter my purpose. I will write to him this moment, and let him know my design.’

"Let me intreat you, madam," said Henrietta, ‘not to do that; go first, and write to him afterwards—And yet I could recommend a better way of punishing this insolent lover.’

"Tell me what better way," cried miss Belmour, eagerly.

"It is to marry, madam," replied Henrietta; ‘chuse out of that crowd of lovers who address you, him whom you think most deserving. Marriage will secure your peace, your honour, and reputation, and effectually punish, the man who made the sacrifice of all these, the necessary condition of his love for you.’

This expedient was not at all approved of by miss Belmour. She declared she hated the whole sex for Mr. Campley's sake; and Henrietta had no difficulty to believe her: however, she prevailed with her to promise that she would keep her intended journey secret till she was just ready to depart, that it might not seem as if she meant only to alarm her designing lover. This promise she observed so ill, that she declared that very day at lady D—'s her intention to spend a few months in Paris. Mr. Campley, who was there, and who still kept up his assumed indifference, instead of endeavouring to alter her purpose, as she expected, coldly congratulated her on the pleasures she would enjoy in that enchanting metropolis. Miss Belmour came home ready to burst with rage and disappointment.

"I knew how it would be, madam," said Henrietta, ‘if you talked of your design. Mr. Campley thinks he sees through the artifice of it: all you can do now is to hasten your departure.’

‘I am resolved I'll set out to-morrow morning,’ said miss Belmour. ‘No matter for preparations; pack up a few necessaries to take with us in the coach, and leave directions for my trunks to be sent after. When we come to Dover, if there is not a packetboat ready to sail, I'll hire one at any price: I shall not be at rest till I have convinced this man I am really determined to avoid him.’

Henrietta kept up this spirit; and after she had given proper directions to the housekeeper, and sent orders for the coach to be ready early in the morning, she busied herself in packing up, her lady assisting, in a violent flutter of spirits, and wishing impatiently for the hour of departure.

Our fair heroine had some objections to taking this journey herself, but her concern for mis's Belmour over-ruled them all. She was not willing to leave unfinished the good work she had begun; and she was apprehensive that, if the young lady was left to the guidance of her own passions, this sudden sally of resentment would end in a reconciliation fatal to her virtue.

She would have been glad to see the countess before she went, but there was no time for this visit; therefore she contented herself with writing to that lady, and to her friend Mrs. Willis. The countess received the news of this journey with great pleasure, because she hoped that absence would effectually cure her son's passion for Henrietta, the consequences of which she was still apprehensive of, notwithstanding he had shewn an extraordinary prudence in the conduct of it.

But Mrs. Willis was very uneasy, lest any thing should happen that might make her repent the removing herself thus from all her friends, and putting herself entirely in the power of a stranger. Had there been time for it, she would have endeavoured to dissuade Henrietta from going; but, recollecting that Mr. Bale was in France, and that they might possibly meet, she resolved to write to the old gentleman, and give him a full account of every thing relating to the situation of his fair persecuted ward, not even omitting his son's doubtful behaviour with regard to her; for she knew, that if they met, Henrietta would be silent upon that article, and yet it was necessary he should know it, that he might be convinced her misfortunes were chiefly owing to his son's treachery; and this consideration she hoped would produce something to her advantage.

HENRIETTA. BOOK THE FIFTH.

CHAP. I.

Contains an adventure, in which our heroine is more than ordinarily interested.

IN the mean time, our fair travelle•• having regulated their affairs in the 〈◊〉 manner the extreme hurry they were in world admit, set out for Dover in miss Belmour's coach. That young lady, still agitated with the violence of her resentment, which Henrietta took care should not abate, and elated with the hope of reducing her lover to despair, by thu• leaving him, thought the horses went too slow for her impatience. She wished for wings to convey her at once far from him, and declare that she never desired to see him more; y•• Henrietta observed that she frequently looked out of the windows with an air of anxious expectation, and would sigh when she drew in her head again, as if she had been disappointed— Doubtless she had conceived hopes that her lover would follow her; and, considering this neglect as a new proof of his indifference, it redoubled her rage, and strengthened a resolution which reason and virtue had very little share in.

This thought gave Henrietta great concern: her conversion promised no great permanency, since it was founded on such motives; but all she could now do was to manage her passions, for the time was not yet come, to touch her heart by sentiments of piety and virtue.

On their arrival at Dover, they found the Calais packet-boat ready to sail. Miss Belmour, who would fain have lingered at Dover a day, was not much pleased with this circumstance, but her pride was concerned not to betray any irresolution; accordingly she embarked with a tolerable good grace; and the wind continuing fair, they soon landed at Calais.

Miss Belmour having made the journey before, was under no embarassment how to conduct herself. The customary ceremonies at landing being over, she proceeded to the inn she had formerly been at; and having hired a post-chaise for herself and Henrietta, and a horse for her servant, she set out immediately after dinner, and reached Boulogne that •••ing.

As the chaise stopped at the inn they put up at, two gentlemen alighted from their horses at the same time; one of whom hearing they were English ladies advanced, and respectfully offered them his hand to help them out. Miss Belmour, pleased with the graceful appearance of this stranger, politely accepted his assistance, which he likewise tendered to Henrietta, whose charms, at the first glance, made a powerful impression on his heart.

His eyes told her this so intelligibly, that she was under some confusion; yet she found in herself a kind of satisfaction at the attention with which he gazed on her, and was now for the first time sensible to the pleasure of cha••ing but, accustomed to watch carefully over the motions of her own mind, she checked this ••∣ing vanity; and a little ashamed of the folly she discovered in herself, she hastily withdrew he• hand, which he still held, as not 〈◊〉 maste• enough of himself to part with it, though she was already out of the chaise; and think •• him by a graceful courtesy for his civility. she followed miss Belmour into the room the land lady had conducted her to.

The young gentleman stood gazing after her as long as she was in sight; then turning to his friend, who was giving some orders to their footmen,

"Oh, Charles!" cried he, with a look half serious, half gay, "my fatal hour is come."

"What! I'll warrant you," said the other, ‘you are shot through the heart with the glances of the younger of those ladies; I observed how you gazed on her.’

"Is she not a charming creature?" exclaimed the first; ‘what features! what a complexion! what elegance in her whole form!—I am sure she has wit; I saw her soul in her eyes.’

"Faith! I am half concerned for you," interrupted Charles, with an affected seriousness: ‘this will be an unfortunate encounter, I am afraid.’

‘Can we not think of some method to introduce ourselves to them?’ cried the other, without minding what he had said: ‘I shall not rest till I find out who they are.’

"What will it signify to you to know," replied Charles: ‘they are going to Paris, and we to London.’

"Why aye, that is true," said the other, ‘we shall go different ways in the morning; and yet—what think you, my dear Charles, of going back to Paris for a few days, and we shall have an opportunity of escorting these fair travellers?—Come, it will be but a frolick, and I know you are no enemy to them.’

"I don't like this frolick," replied Charles; ‘it has too serious an air: sure you are strangly charmed with this girl—Just upon the point of seeing your father and your family, after a long absence, and so suddenly to resolve upon protracting your stay from them—I don't half like it I confess, and this once, my lord, I must oppose your inclinations.’

"Oh, sir, you are grave!" replied his lordship, a little sullenly, ‘you have a mind to exert the governor too; but let me tell you, that, considering the equality of our years and the terms we have hitheto lived upon, this wisdom is very unseasonable.’

The young lord, having said this with some emotion, hastily entered the house; and calling to the inn-keeper to shew him a room, went away, without taking any farther notice of his governor, who stood musing for some time after he was gone, and then followed him with an intention to bring him, if possible to reason.

Upon his entering the room, he found his pupil leaning on a table, with a discontented air. He just raised his head to see who it was that came in; and immediately resumed his former posture, without speaking a word.

The governor looked at him a moment in silence; at last,

‘This pensiveness (said he) and this causeless resentment; are they not strong arguments against my complying with your proposal? The impression this girl has made on your heart must needs be very great, since it can make you already forget that friendship you have vowed for me, and in which I placed so much happiness.’

‘It is you, not I, who seems to have forgot our mutual friendship,’ replied the young nobleman, melted at those last words: ‘Why did you, my dear Charles, lose the beloved friend and companion in the austere governor? is not this strange affectation!’

"Indeed, my lord," replied the governor, ‘I should be unworthy the title of your friend, if I was not attentive to your interest.’

"Was there ever any thing so absurd," interrupted his lordship, ‘to make a serious affair of a little idle curiosity!’

"Don't you make a serious affair of it," replied the governor, ‘and I shall be contented.’

‘Well, then, you consent to go back to Paris with me,’ said the pupil.

"If you are resolved to go," answered the governor, "to be sure I will go with you."

"Now you are my friend again," said the young lord, hugging him: ‘I promise you, I will not stay long in Paris; but we must be Freeman and Melvil again, my dear Charle• —Ah, how many pleasant adventures have we had under those names!’

"If this proves of no greater consequence," resumed the young governor, ‘I shall not regret coming into your scheme; but I confess I am alarmed at your eagerness to follow th• young woman. She seems to have made n• slight impression on your heart: there is danger in these sort of attachments; how do you know how far this may lead you?’

‘What strange notions have entered you• head!’ said the young nobleman; ‘it •• hardly worth while to make a serious answer to them: but this you may depend upon, th• I never will follow my inclinations in oppo••∣tion to the duty I owe my father. And not what do you think will become of th•• dangerous attachment? but (added he, smiling) we must make our fellow-travellers a visit; these inns are charming places for shortening the ceremonies of a first introduction.’ He rang the bell, without waiting for his friend's answer, and, one of his servants appearing, he ordered him to present Mr. Freeman's and his compliments to the two English ladies, with a request that they would permit them to wait upon them.

Henrietta felt her heart flutter at this message; •et her natural reserve made her wish miss Belmour would decline the visit of these young gentlemen. However, that lady returned a civil answer, and permission for them to come.

Henrietta, sensible of an agitation which she had never known before, would have chose not to have shared this visit; but it was not possible to avoid it: miss Belmour had obliged her 〈◊〉 throw off the character of a servant, and to •ve with her upon the footing of a friend and companion; to which Henrietta was in •uced to consent, by the hope she had, that his familiarity would furnish her with opportunities to guard her unhappy mistress against the evils into which her blind passion was hurrying her.

To this mark of consideration and esteem miss Belmour added a most affectionate behaviour, which entirely won the heart of the tender and grateful Henrietta: for nothing so much resembles true friendship, as those connexions which lovers form with persons whom they make the confidants of their passion.

Thus circumstanced, Henrietta was obliged to receive the compliments of Mr. Melvil and his friend, as well as her lady, who, soon after, fell into a fit of musing, that made it necessary for our fair heroine to keep up the conversation with the two gentlemen, which she did with that sprightliness and vivacity so natural to her.

The graces of her wit, the easy elegance of her manners, and the modest dignity of her deportment, formed new chains for the heart of Melvil. He looked on his friend with an exulting air: his eyes challenged his admiration of the woman, whose merit justified the sentiments he entertained for her.

At parting, he told the ladies, that, sin• he was going to Paris, as well as they, h• hoped they would allow him the pleasure of • scorting them; and that he would regulate h• journey entirely by their's.

Henrietta, who well remembered to have seen these travellers taking the very contrary route, was a little surprised at this declaration; but miss Belmour, absorbed in her own reflections, was wholly ignorant of that circumstance; and, considering this offer in no other light than that of general politeness, she received it with her usual complaisance.

The youth and beauty of the two ladies made their apparent independent situation a matter of curiosity to Mr. Freeman, as well as the profound melancholy in which one of them seemed buried.

Melvil was little concerned in these enqui •ies; all his thoughts were taken up with the perfections he found in her who had charmed him; and he was much less solicitous to discover who she was, than how to make himself agreeable to her. He found she was not married, by the other lady's giving her the title of miss when she spoke to her; and he was perfectly satisfied with this knowledge. Conscious of the ardor with which he already loved this fair stranger, he was apprehensive of awakening the fears of his friend, by dwelling too long on her praises; but he received the testimony, which Freeman could not help giving to her merit, with such an undisguised transport, as drew from him some serious admonitions, which he rallied off with a sprightly air, and then changed the discourse to a less interesting subject.

CHAP. II.

Which shews that it is easier to be wise for others than ourselves.

THO' miss Belmour's melancholy ha• hindered her from taking any great sha• in the conversation during this visit, yet he mind was still free enough to observe, tha• Henrietta had made an impression upon the heart of Mr. Melvil. She congratulated he• smiling, upon her conquest; nor did her railery even spare her: for Henrietta, who, fo• a full hour, had appeared animated with a extraordinary vivacity, became all on a sudd• pensive and silent. This change exactly commenced at the time Mr. Melvil went away but she did not perceive it herself, and started as from a dream, when miss Belmour reproach her with it.

Concerned that she had given room for suspicion of this nature, she began, as soon she was alone, to examine her own heart: miss Belmour had praised the personal graces of Mr. Melvil, and it was but justice to own, that he was eminently handsome; but was she weak enough to be dazzled with the beauty of a man? No, certainly; his countenance pleased her, because it was a picture of his mind; candor, sweetness, benevolence, shined in every feature: the politeness of his address, his gentle manners, that air so noble, yet so peculiarly soft and engaging, his good sense, and, above all, the justness and purity of his sentiments, which she had time enough to discover during their conversation; were not these qualities which a modest young woman might esteem? and is love a necessary consequence of esteeming one of that sex? Must she deny herself the pleasure of approving virtue and merit, for fear of loving it too much? It was thus she argued, and soon dispelled those doubts which miss Belmour's raillery had raised in her mind.

While Henrietta, under the notion of barely esteeming what was indeed truly worthy of esteem, was insensibly giving way to more tender sentments, Mr. Melvil, who loved with all the tenderness and ardor of a first passion, as his really was, burned with impatience for the hour when they were to join the fair travellers: Freeman directed his attention to miss Belmour, which gave the young lover an opportunity of employing his whole care and assiduity about his mistress, who ascribed all to his natural politeness, and remained in a perfect tranquility, as well with regard to his sentiments as her own. Miss Belmour's experience, however, soon let her into the secret of their hearts. Melvil's passion was indeed apparent enough, notwithstanding the pains he was at to conceal it, thro' fear of his friend's troublesome remonstrances; but Henrietta's, tho' hid from herself, was open to miss Belmour's discerning eyes, and she exulted in the discovery.

This rigid censurer of her conduct; this inflexibly virtuous maid, was entangled in the snares of love. She perceived that she herself was ignorant of her own danger, and she was resolved not to draw her out of this false security by any unseasonable railleries: for, however useful the strict principles of Henrietta had been to her, yet she could not 〈◊〉 the superiority they gave her; and she rejo•••d in the hope, that a passion, perhaps as unfortunate placed as her own, would reduce 〈◊〉 to a equality with her.

Their journey now drew near a period: Melvil trembled at the thoughts of parting; he had indeed laid the foundation of an intimacy with the two ladies, which would give him a right to visit them in Paris; but he had been used to see the object of his passion continually, from the first moment of his acquaintance with her: and altho' they never separated till the evening, yet he thought the time amazingly long till they met again. How then would he be able to support an absence of two or three days, which decorum would oblige him to make the interval of his visits? besides, she was still ignorant of the sentiments she had inspired him with. Hitherto he had never found an opportunity of speaking to her alone; but if one should offer, how could he declare himself to a woman, for whom he felt as much respect as love? yet one, whose birth he was ignorant of, who seemed to be in a dependent situation, whom he could not think of marrying, and whom he durst not wish to seduce.

The difficulties he could not remove he endeavoured to banish from his thoughts; and, without considering what must be the event of the passion he was thus indulging, he for the present confined all his wishes to the pleasure of seeing her.

Miss Belmour had often wondered that this young lover shewed so little solicitude to make opportunities of speaking to his mistress in private. She could not impute this behaviour to want of ardor; every look he gave her was expressive of the tenderness his soul was filled with: it was then respect, it was awe, it was fear of offending, that laid him under this restraint. How glorious this for Henrietta how humiliating for her, who had scarce escaped falling a sacrifice to the dishonourable attempts of her lover! Was she then less capable of inspiring a respectful passion than her woman? or did her charms act more powerfully on the heart she had subdued, than those of Henrietta? This question her self-love easily decided; and, from the same sentiment, she was persuaded that Henrietta, with all her boasted virtue, would defend herself as weakly against the lover her inclinations declared for, as the had done. Her present triumph, she thought, was 〈◊〉 oweing to her own strength than her lover's weakness, who had not yet made a formal attack upon her heart: curiosity to know what effect the declaration of his passion would have, made her resolve to give him an opportunity of speaking to her in private. They were now within a day's journey of Paris. On their arrival at the house where they were to dine, Mr. Freeman, as usual, went to give orders for their entertainment, and left Melvil with the two ladies. Miss Belmour, pretending that she had a mind for some particular dish, ran after him, and kept him in conversation, that he might not interrupt the lovers, who being now for the first time alone together, were both equally embarrassed.

Henrietta cast down her eyes, surprised at the confusion in which she found herself, and shocked at the intelligence this new emotion gave her of the true state of her heart. Mr. Melvil approached her trembling; he could not resolve to lose so favourable an opportunity of declaring his sentiments to her: but the natural goodness and rectitude of his mind suggesting to him, that it was a kind of fraud to seek encouragement of a passion, the design of which he was not himself able to answer for, he remained a few moments in suspence.

This silence increased Henrietta's embarrassment, but suddenly reflecting upon the advantage it gave Mr. Melvil over her, she turned her eyes towards him, with a look, in which she endeavoured to throw as much indifference as possible, but which, nevertheless, had an unusual coldness in it; so that Melvil, partly with-held by his extreme delicacy, and partly by the awe which this severe glance inspired him with, dropped, for that time, all thoughts of declaring his passion, and immediately entered into an indifferent conversation.

Henrietta seemed as if relieved from a painful load; her countenance resumed its former sweetness, and she talked to him with her usual vivacity; yet miss Belmour, at her return, saw some remains of her late uneasiness in her eyes: she observed too, that she spoke less to Mr. Melvil, and more to his friend than she did before; that she studiously avoided the looks of the former; and that her behaviour to him was less free and obliging than it used to be. All this she looked upon as the play of coquetry; and in Mr. Melvil's apparent melancholy she saw its purpose and effect.

But Henrietta taught by what passed in her own heart, during the few moments she was alone with Mr. Melvil, that she not only considered him as a lover, but a 〈…〉 by his engaging qualities, 〈…〉 to strengthen her prepossession in 〈…〉, by continuing to see and converse 〈…〉 Lord B—'s behaviour had given 〈…〉 of the disinterestedness of men. 〈…〉 at her own imprudence, in so 〈…〉 the humble station that Providence had placed her in, as to entertain sentiments of tenderness for a man, who, from the inequality there was between them, might think himself authorised to form expectations injurious to her honour: tho' her weakness was so lately known to herself, yet she fancied it had been perceived by others before, and that even Mr. Melvil had discovered the preference with which she regarded him. It was this thought which made her so suddenly alter her behaviour; but as indifference is, of all dispositions of the mind, the hardest to feign, Melvil imputed the apparent constraint in her manner to some disgust he had unhappily given her, and miss Belmour to the artifice of a coquet.

Henrietta, who was far from imagining she over-acted her part, continued, during the whole time they were at dinner, to avoid her lover's looks, so carefully that he had no opportunity to make her comprehend by them, how much he was concerned at her extraordinary coldness. However, she could not, without affectation, refuse him her hand when they left the inn; but they followed Mr. Freeman and miss Belmour so close, that it was not possible for him to speak to her without being overheard; and he in vain sought her eyes: they were always directed another way. He sighed when he helped her into the chaise; and if she had not turned her face from him that moment, the blush with which it was overspread, would have shewn him that she took but too much notice of that sigh.

"You are melancholy, Henrietta," said miss Belmour, after looking at her in silence for a long time, attentive to the motions of her mind, which might be easily read in her countenance.

"Am I, madam?" replied she, with a sigh half suppressed, and a gentle smile.

"Yes, indeed, are you," resumed miss Belmour, mimicking the languid accent in which she spoke; ‘and I don't remember that I ever saw you so before.’

‘And yet I have many causes for melancholy, madam,’ replied Henrietta, whose heart was full, and she eagerly grasped at this opportunity to relieve herself by tears; tears, which she supposed she gave to the remembrance of her misfortunes, without asking herself, why that remembrance was more poignant now than before.

"Ah! Henrietta," said miss Belmour, shaking her head, ‘your heart has undergone a great change within these few days— You are •• love, my dear.’ "Is it possible, madam," cried Henrietta, hastily, her fair face all crimsoned over, ‘that you have discovered?— Do you think that— Then, to be sure, Mr. Melvil.’— She stopped abruptly, and cast down her eyes: the mention of that name seemed to lead her to a consciousness, that she had betrayed herself.

Miss Belmour was affected with her beautiful simplicity. ‘Don't be ashamed, my dear Henrietta,’ said she, taking her hand, ‘to speak freely to me. From me (added she, sighing) you may be sure of indulgence.’

"No, madam, no," interrupted Henrietta, with great earnestness, ‘I would not seek indulgence for my weaknesses: but I conjure you, madam,’ pursued she, with tears that in spite of her endeavours would force their way, ‘suffer me to return to that humble station, from which your partial kindness raised me— You have made me forget I was a servant— It does not become me to view with sensibility the merit of persons so greatly above me, But you shall find, madam, that I will repair this error, and that my conduct shall be such as may render me not unworthy your esteem.’

Notwithstanding the delicate turn which Henrietta gave to a declaration, which shewed she was determined early to conquer her passion, yet miss Belmour considered it as a triumph over her, who had not been capable of acting with equal prudence.

‘It is happy for you (said she, coldly) that you need no assistance to help you to keep your passions in subjection; but I owe you too many obligations for the good counsel you have given me, to permit you to appear in any other character than that of my friend.’

Henrietta's mind was in so much agitation, that she did not take in the full sense of this answer, but struck with the obliging purport of the last words of it, she expressed her gratitude in terms full of tenderness and respect.

The sight of Paris drew them both out of a long silence, which had succeeded a conversation with which neither had been pleased: Henrietta, because it had discovered so much weakness on her side; miss Belmour, because it had shewn so little.

Their chaise, as miss Belmour h•• directed stopped at the house of her banker in P•is. Th•• two gentlemen were already at the side of it Mr. Melvil, as if he was afraid Henrietta would refuse him her hand, seized it with trembling haste; and, as he led her into the house, ventured to press it with his lips, unperceived by any one else. Henrietta, imputing this boldnes's to the discovery he had made of her sentiments, pulled her hand away hastily, giving him a look at the same time that expressed her resentment; but all her anger could not prevent her from being affected with the soft languor that appeared in his face, and the submissive manner in which he had yielded to the effort she made to withdraw her hand.

Miss Belmour, at parting, told them, she hoped to see them again in a day or two, when she should be settled. Her Parisian friend soon procured her convenient lodgings, and, at her desire, recommended to her a Femme de Chambre, among the other servants he provided her, which Henrietta in vain opposed; but fixed in her design to avoid Mr. Melvil, she took care to be seldom in the way when he came.

Miss Belmour blamed her for this conduct. ‘You will make the man think you love him, and are afraid of him (said she) by flying him.’

If I loved him, madam," replied Henrietta, blushing, ‘is it not prudence to avoid him?’

"Why, I don't know," said miss Belmour, ‘Mr. Melvil certainly loves you; and, whatever inequality there may be in your conditions, yet love is a great leveller: he may possibly intend to marry you.’

‘It is not fit I should suppose he has any such design, madam,’ resumed Henrietta, ‘since it is highly improbable; and I will not expose myself to the danger of being deceived. I have some-where read (added she, smiling) that in love flight is victory; and this way at least I shall be sure to conquer.’

Miss Belmour, who knew how difficult it was to be in love and be wise, laughed at a resolution, which she did not think it would be always in her power to maintain. Poor Henrietta, who had so artlessly laid open her heart, was often exposed to the most poignant raillery from her; but at length she was delivered from this kind of persecution by a surprising alteration in miss Belmour herself.

This young lady, who had fled from her lover, rather with a hope of stimulating his passion than of subduing her own, though she endeavoured to impose upon herself in believing the latter to be the true motive of her conduct, fell into a most violent despair, when she found that, far from following her, he did not even seek a reconciliation by writing to her. Sick of herself, the world, and tired of her existence, she mistook the agitations of a heart tortured by jealousy, disappointment, and the pangs of slighted love, for the motions of grace and the genuine marks of repentance. She neglected her dress, took no pleasure in any amusement, avoided company, and spent whole hours in her closet, where she wept and prayed by turns.

She told Henrietta, that the world and all its pleasures were grown insipid to her; that her whole soul was filled with divine love; and that the thoughts and exercises of religion made up all her happiness. She then passionately regretted that there were no religious communities among the protestants, where a mind that was weaned from this sublunary world, and all its vanities, might freely indulge its pious contemplations, and devote itself entirely to Heaven. "Oh, how happy are the nuns!" she exclaimed; ‘how I envy them! Sure nothing can be more delightful, when persons are truly pious, than to live in a religious society excluded from all commerce with a world they must certainly despise. I think I should be perfectly happy if I was in a cloister.’

Henrietta congratulated her upon her new sentiments, but endeavoured to prove that there was more merit in passing through life with innocence, and in rightly performing 〈…〉, than in flying to the gloomy solitude 〈◊〉 ••ister, where virtue is secured by bolts and ••rs, and the exercises of religion performed as a penance. She recommended to her the study of the scriptures, and put some practical treatises of religion, written by the best authors on that subject, into her hands: but the zeal of this new convert was so flaming, that nothing would serve her but a total retirement from the world; and she made such frequent visits to a convent, where a friend of her's had lately taken the veil, that Henrietta was apprehensive the nuns would discover the true state of her mind and take advantage of her passions to pervert he• principles, and secure her to themselves.

While these whims possessed her, she was so inaccessible to all visiters, that Mr. Melvil could with difficulty get admittance. Freeman saw the progress of his passion with great uneasiness and, finding that he could not be prevailed upon to leave Paris, resolved to write to his father and give him a hint of the dangerous attach•ment his son had formed, that he might se• him a peremptory command to return to England; but before he could execute this design, Melvil, to his great surprise, told him, that he would leave Paris in two days. The poor youth expected his friend would have expressed some joy at this news; and, being disappointed at his receiving with indifference what had cost him so many pangs to resolve upon,

"You make me no compliments," said he, with a tender smile, ‘upon the conquest I have gained over my inclinations: do you think I can banish myself from miss Benson without concern?’

‘I am sure I cannot hear you speak in this manner without concern,’ replied Freeman. ‘Is it fit for a young man of your rank to entertain a serious liking for a woman, to whose birth and character you are an absolute stranger.’

"There is not a man in the world," resumed Melvil, eagerly, ‘who need to blush for loving miss Benson; her person, beautiful as it is, is the least of her charms; that mingled sweetness and dignity in her manners, that graceful modesty which distinguishes every word and action of her's, exalt her above all the women I have ever seen. You have heard her talk, and you could not help owning that you thought her very sensible.’

"Well, but what is all this to the purpose?" interrupted Freeman; ‘what signifies attributing such goddess-like perfections to an obscure girl, whom, if you were at liberty to dispose of yourself, you would not, I suppose, be so mad as to marry: your fortune would enable you to make other proposals, less unworthy of yourself, though advantageous enough for a young woman in her dependent situation.’

"May I perish," replied Melvil, with some emotion, ‘if I would degrade such excellence to a mistress; but if I were capable of such a design, her virtue, I am sure, is incorruptible. Have you not observed with what care she shuns me? She knows I love her, but she knows not with what purity I love her; and, conscious of her situation, she is afraid I should take advantage of it to declare myself in a manner that would wound her delicacy.— Charming creature, how I love her!— Indeed, my dear Freeman, it is time to be gone.’

"I see it plainly," replied Freeman, ‘you are grown quite romantick— We will set ou• to-morrow, if you please; for, with the strang• notions you have entertained, I think you ought not to trust yourself here any longer.’

The lover consented with a sigh, but at the same time put his friend in mind, that civility obliged them to go and take leave of the ladies. Freeman could not reasonably oppose his making this visit; and, after he had given proper directions to the servants for their journey the next day, he accompanied him to miss Belmour's lodgings.

CHAP. III.

In which miss Belmour acts the part of a true female friend.

THEY found the two ladies together: Henrietta could not, without affectation, avoid her lover that day, as she was in the room when he came in; and he, who had not been so fortunate for several days before, found so much delight in looking at her and hearing her speak, that he forgot he came to pay a farewel visit, which Mr. Freeman observing, took care to mention their design of leaving Paris the next day.

Melvil's gaiety was immediately over-cast, Henrietta turned pale, Freeman was attentive to his friend's emotions, and only miss Belmour had freedom of mind enough lest to speak. She said some civil things upon the occasion, which Freeman answered; for Melvil continued silent, with his eyes fixed upon Henrietta, who had bent her's towards the ground: conscious of the emotion with which she had heard the news of their intended departure, she durst no• look up, lest the person, from whom she was most solicitous to hide her concern, should read it 〈◊〉 plainly in her countenance.

Recovering herself at length, upon miss Belmour's taking occasion to thank them anew fo• the civilities she had received from them during their journey from Calais, she added a few word• to her compliment; but, in doing so, her eye slightly glanced over Mr. Melvil, and directed their looks full upon his friend.

The conversation was dull enough during tw• hours that they stayed; and Freem•• 〈…〉 the young gentleman wanted resolution to •• an end to the visit, rose up first, Mr. Melvil di• so likewise, though with apparent reluctance• and having saluted miss Belmour, approache• Henrietta, trembling. She turned pale and 〈◊〉 successively; a soft sigh stole from her. Melv•• was in too much emotion to observe her's: he saluted her with an air of solemn respect; but, as she retired a step back, a sudden impulse, which he could not resist, made him take her hand; he pressed it to his lips with passionate tenderness, and, sighing, quitted the room with the utmost precipitation.

Henrietta's eyes overflowed; she made haste to wipe them before miss Belmour, who attended the gentlemen as far as the door of her anti-chamber, returned.

"Ah! my poor Henrietta," said that young lady, who perceived she had been weeping, ‘I pity you—What sordid wretches are these men! Melvil loves you, and yet he is able to leave you; nay, I am persuaded he has discovered your tenderness for him—What monstrous ingratitude! you ought to hate him, my dear.’

"You bid me hate him, madam," replied Henrietta, smiling, ‘yet say every thing that can confirm me in a favourable opinion of him. If he loves me, and has seen any weakness in me , he gives the best proof of his love in not seeking to take advantage of that weakness.’

Miss Belmour, who thought this a strange way •f reasoning, answered no otherwise than by a •ignificant smile, which seemed to say she was re •olved to justify him at any rate; while Henrietta, finding in her lover's behaviour a delicac• which agreeably flattered her esteem of him, che•rished his remembrance with a tender grief an perhaps, for the first rime, repined at her un•happy fortune, which had placed such a d••• between them.

As soon as the two gentlemen and left the lodgings, Melvil, who found h••self ver• low-spirited, proposed to his friend to spen• the evening at a noted Hotel, with som• young Englishmen of fashion, who were newl• arrived: Freeman consented; but observed wit• uneasiness, that his pupil, who till then ha• been remarkably abstemious, pushed about th• bottle with great velocity, and could not be per•suaded to go home till the night was far ad•vanced.

Mr. Freeman saw him in bed, and then retire to his own chamber, full of apprehensions le• this sudden intemperance should have any •• effect on his health. As soon as it was light, I went to his bed-side, and found him with all th• symptoms of a feverish disorder upon him, which the agitations of his mind had contribute more perhaps than the liquor of which he •• drank so freely.

All thoughts of their journey were now lai• aside; physicians were sent for, who pronounc• ••at he was dangerously ill: Freeman, full of •nxiety, sat close to his bed, holding one of his ••ning hands tenderly pressed between his. He •eard him sigh frequently, and from thence took •ccasion to ask him, if any secret uneasiness oc ••sioned his indisposition?

The young gentleman attributed his illness ••tirely to the debauch he had made the night •fore; but his fever increasing, he grew deli ••ous, and then the name of miss Benson was •ontinually in his mouth.

Freeman, judging by these ravings of the deep ••pression this young woman had made on the •eart of his pupil, blamed himself for so obsti ••tely opposing his passion, and, judging from •enrietta's situation that she would not refuse to ••en to such proposals as his fortune enabled him 〈◊〉 make her, he resolved to attempt something 〈◊〉 his friend's favour.

His curiosity having led him to make some en ••ries concerning miss Belmour of several per ••• that had lately arrived from England, he •nd she had but a doubtful character; her con ••cions with Mr. Campley having exposed her to ••at censure: of her companion he could learn ••thing; but, concluding from the friendship •re appeared to be between them, that she was 〈◊〉 confidant in this amour, he flattered himself that she would not be a very difficult conquest.

He shut his eyes upon all that was wrong in this proceeding; and, considering nothing but the interest of his friend, he thought it less dangerous to give him a mistress, than to trust him to the fantastic power of his passion, which might hurry him on to a clandestine marriage.

The young gentleman was in a few days entirely out of danger from the fever; but his sighs and the pensive air of his countenance, shewe• that his mind was not at ease.

"If you were able to go abroad," said Free¦man to him, ‘we would visit our English ladi•• once more before we leave Paris. They ima¦gine we are in London by this time, and w• be strangely surprised to see us again.’

"Then, they do not know I have been ill• replied Mr. Melvil.

"Not yet," said Freeman; but if you w• ‘they should know, I will wait on them this a•¦ternoon, and tell them what has kept us 〈◊〉 Paris so much longer than we intended.’

Melvil affected to receive this proposal w• indifference; but his friend observed, that 〈◊〉 was more chearful than before, and doubted 〈◊〉 but he expected the news of his illness w• have some effect on Henrietta.

He went at the usual hour, and was immediately admitted: "you are in Paris still, then!" exclaimed miss Belmour, in a joyful accent, as soon as Freeman entered her apartment, ‘I am excessively glad of it, I hope your agreeable friend is with you.’

Freeman, a little disappointed at not seeing Henrietta with her, answered coldly, that Mr. Melvil had been indisposed, which obliged them to delay their journey.

"I fancy," said miss Belmour, with an arch •et, ‘that the air of Paris is mighty necessary for your friend at this time, you are in the wrong to hurry him away.’

‘You have a great deal of penetration, madam,’ replied Mr. Freeman, smiling, ‘you have guessed the cause of his illness, I believe.’

"I believe I have," resumed miss Belmour, ‘and perhaps I could tell him something that might contribute to forward his recovery.’

Freeman began now to think his scheme was 〈◊〉 a hopeful way. ‘To be sincere with you, madam,’ said he, with a graver look and •cent, ‘Mr. Melvil is desperately in love with miss Benson.’

"Poor man!" cried miss Belmour, laughing, ‘ •he is to be pitied truly, for miss Benson is most desperately in love with him likewise.’

"How happy would this news make him!" exclaimed Freeman. ‘Am I, madam, at liberty to tell him?’

"Certainly," replied miss Belmour, ‘I told you for that purpose; and now what do you think of my frankness?’

"I adore you for it, madam," said Freeman, taking her hand, which (encouraged by her behaviour) he kissed with great liberty. "Ah!" pursued he, looking at her tenderly, ‘what additional charms does kindness give to beauty!’

"I hear miss Benson on the stairs," said mis• Belmour, withdrawing her hand; ‘I will give you an opportunity to plead your friend's cause: remember what I have told you, and don't be discouraged by a little affectation.’

She stopped upon Henrietta's entrance, wh• started at the sight of Mr. Freeman, and im¦mediately after her fair face was covered wit• blushes.

‘You see we have not lost our good friend yet,’ said miss Belmour. Henrietta on•• smiled. "I must desire you, my dear," pursu•• that young lady, ‘to entertain Mr. Freeman▪ I ordered some trades-people to attend 〈◊〉 about this time.’

She hurried out of the room when she had said this, not without some confusion for the part she had acted; to account for which, it is necessary the reader should know that the mind of this young lady had undergone another revolution, within the few days of Mr. Melvil's illness.

A letter from her lover, filled with tender complaints, and new assurances of everlasting fidelity, had banished all thoughts of devotion and a convent. She had answered it immediately without communicating it to Henrietta; her transport at finding herself still beloved, and the fear of disgusting him by any new coldness, hurried her on to the most fatal resolutions. She invited him to come to Paris to her; and, not doubting but he would instantly obey her summons, she was now only solicitous how to reconcile Henrietta to her conduct, and oblige her to keep her secret.

The unexpected news of Mr. Melvil's being still in Paris, and Mr. Freeman's acknowledgment of his friend's passion for Henrietta, answered all her views. She imputed the reserve Henrietta had been enabled to maintain, less to her own virtue than to the unenterprising temper of her lover; and was persuaded that the discovery she had made of her tenderness for him, would put the affair upon such a footing, as to make her less rigid in her remonstrances with respect to Mr. Campley.

CHAP. IV.

Which contains a very interesting discovery.

FREEMAN, though persuaded that miss Belmour was a woman of intrigue, and by consequence entertaining no elevated idea of her companion, yet found himself so awed by the modesty that shone in her countenance, and the dignity of her person and manner, that he was at some loss how to introduce the subject which had brought him thither. Henrietta, however, innocently led him to it, by expressing her surprise to see him still in Paris.

"You say nothing of my friend, madam," said Freeman; ‘and this indifference with regard to him is a very bad omen.’

"I hope Mr. Melvil is well," said Henrietta gravely, without seeming to take any notice o• the strange speech he had made.

‘He is better than he was three or four day• ago,’ replied Freeman, ‘when his phys•¦cians despaired of his life.’

"Bless me!" cried Henrietta, with an emotion she could not suppress, ‘has Mr. Melvil been so ill then? I am extremely concerned to hear it.’

"You would, no doubt," said Freeman, ‘be more concerned if you knew you were the cause.’

"This kind of raillery, Mr. Freeman," replied Henrietta, a little confused, ‘is not at all agreeable to me, I assure you.’

"By Heaven I am serious," resumed Freeman; ‘my friend loves you with the utmost ardor: I am a witness to the birth and progress of his passion, and to his fruitless endeavours to conquer it. The effort he made to leave Paris, has almost cost him his life; he was taken ill the evening before our intended departure. Oh, miss Benson! had you heard with what tenderness he called upon your name, when the violence of his fever had deprived him of his senses, I am sure you must have pitied him.’

Freeman perceived by the changes in Henrietta's countenance, that she did not hear him without emotion. He paused, in expectation of some pretty affected answer, that would give hope while it seemed to destroy it; but Henrietta, with a composed look and accent, replied,

‘If I am to believe this account of your friend's illness not exaggerated, permit me to ask you, sir, what is your design by making me acquainted with his sentiments, and what you expect from me upon this occasion?’

Freeman was a little disconcerted by this speech, and at the manner in which she delivered it; but, relying on the intelligence he had received from miss Belmour,

‘I expect you will have compassion on my friend (said he) and give him an opportunity to declare to you himself the passion you have inspired him with.’

‘I will be very free with you, Mr. Freeman,’ replied Henrietta; ‘your ready concurrence with your friend in the liking you say he has entertained for me, is not consistent with your good sense and prudence. Mr. Melvil is a young man of rank and fortune; I am poor and dependent; my birth perhaps greatly inferior to his. Will his parents, think you, approve of such a choice?’

‘What has parents to do with a tender engagement?’ interrupted Freeman; ‘an en¦gagement in which the heart only 〈◊〉 con¦sulted.’

‘Were my heart ever so well disposed in favour of your friend,’ resumed Henrietta, not willing to understand him, ‘I would not receive his addresses without the sanction of his parents' consent.’

Freeman could hardly help smiling at this formal declaration; and, supposing that the best way to drive these strange notions out of her head, was to acquaint her with Melvil's quality, which he likewise expected would have no small influence over her,

‘It is not fit (said he) that you should be any longer ignorant of the rank of him whom your charms have subjected. Melvil is not the name of my friend; he is the heir of an illustrious title and a great estate: he loves you, he will make your fortune; do not throw away this opportunity of freeing yourself from poverty and dependance, nor let a romantic notion of virtue deprive you of the advantages that are offered you.’

"Hold, sir," interrupted Henrietta, rising from her chair, ‘this insult is too plain; I ought not to have listened to you so long.’ She spoke this with tolerable composure; but, finding her tears begin to flow, she turned aside to conceal them, and hastily wiping her eyes, she looked on him again with a kind of calm disdain.

‘I know not (said she) what weakness you have discovered in my behaviour to encourage you to make me such shocking proposal; but I may venture to tell you, though I am not the mistress of this apartment, that the doors of it shall never be open to you again.’

She was hurrying out of the room when she had spoke this, leaving Freeman in so much confusion, that he knew not what to say to her, when miss Belmour entered with a letter in her hand.

‘Do you know a gentleman of the name of Bale (said she to Henrietta) who is at present at Montpelier?’

"I do, madam," replied she, looking eagerly at the letter.

"Then this letter is for you, I suppose, said miss Belmour, ‘it was inclosed in anothe• to me, and directed to my banker's: 〈◊〉 your name Courteney? you see the superscrip¦tion is for miss Courteney.’

"The letter is certainly for me, madam▪ said Henrietta, blushing.

"Oh! then," replied miss Belmour, smiling, and giving it to her, ‘I have discovered a secret, I find.’

Henrietta retired immediately; and miss Belmour approached Mr. Freeman, who stood leaning over his chair, with his eyes fixed on the ground,

‘What is the matter with you? (said she) you look excessively pale.’

"Where is miss Benson, madam?" said he, starting out of his revery at the sound of her voice.

"She is in her own chamber, I believe," replied miss Belmour; ‘but did you take notice of what passed about the letter, I delivered it to her before you on purpose: you see she in a manner owned that Courteney is her true name; is not this strange?’

"I must beg leave to speak to her again," said he, interrupting her, and making towards the door, "which way, pray madam?"

Miss Belmour followed him, surprised at the agitation he appeared to be in; and, pointing to a room just opposite, "you will find her there," said she.

Freeman opened the door without any ceremony; Henrietta, who was reading her letter, looked up at the noise he made in entering: ‘this is extremely rude, sir (said she) I desire you will instantly be gone, and trouble me no more.’ But, apprehensive that he would not quit her so easily, she rushed by him, and was running to the room in which she had left miss Belmour: he took hold of her hand, to prevent her leaving him; and she was upon the point of expressing her resentment at the insolence of this treatment, in harsher terms than any she had yet used, when she saw tears gush in great abundance from his eyes. Me••• at this sight, she stood still, but endeavoured to disengage her hand, looking at him earnestly, and in the utmost astonishment.

"O my sister!" cried he at last, bursting into a fresh flood of tears; ‘my dear, dear sister’—He was not able to utter a word more, but led her gently back to her chamber, which she permitted, trembling, confused, and full of anxious expectation.

"How strangely you look upon me!" said he, ‘do you doubt whether I am your brother?’

"I know not what to think," replied she, shrinking from his embrace; for he had folded his arms about her.

"Dear girl!" cried he, ‘how amiable is this sweet reserve—these modest doubts— but it is certain I am your brother, my Henrietta: is it possible your memory retains no traces of my features? in your's, methinks I see a lively resemblance of my dear mother. How dull was I that I did not discover it before! but how could I expect to meet you in France, in such a situation, and under a disguised name! Oh! my dear sister, these circumstances distract me— Good Heaven! what a part have I acted— I perceive you are still perplexed,’ pursued he, after a little pause; and, taking a miniature picture out of his pocket, ‘You will certainly be able to recollect your mother's picture (said he) which she gave me at parting.’

Henrietta looked at the picture, kissed it, and then threw herself in tears upon her brother's neck— ‘Forgive my doubts (said she) it is many years since I have seen you, we were children when we parted, but now I am convinced you are my brother: my heart tells me so without this dear testimony,’ pursued she, kissing again the picture of her mother, which she still held; then suddenly clasping her hands together, and lifting up her fine eyes, which were swimming in tears, ‘I thank thee, my God! (said she) for restoring to me my brother:’ and, turning again to him with an affectionate look, ‘a few moments ago (said she) I thought myself very unhappy, but now you will be a friend and protector to me.’

He tenderly kissed her cheek— ‘What a wretch have I been!’ said he, sighing— ‘Indeed, my dear sister, I never shall forgive myself for having ignorantly practised on your virtue.’

"Oh! that my brother," replied Henrietta, ‘would be taught by this accident never more to form designs against innocence; and, in cases like mine, to consider every virtuous young woman as a sister.’

Mr. Courteney, for so we shall now call him, was extremely moved at these words. He gazed at her some moments with mingled tenderness and delight; but all on a sudden, as if struck with some painful reflection,

"Henrietta," said he, with a look and accent greatly altered from his former sweetness, ‘why came you to France? and how has it happened that you are so intimately connected with thi• woman, this miss Belmour?’

‘Why, do you know any harm of mis• Belmour?’ said Henrietta, frighted at h•• sternness.

"You don't answer my question," replied he, peevishly.

"Alas! my dear brother," said Henrietta, ‘I have a long and melancholy story to tell you: I have been reduced to great distress; my aunt, with whom you supposed me so happily settled, has treated me unkindly: I must confess, indeed, I have not been wholly free from blame; but you shall know all some other time. As for miss Belmour, I was recommended to her— I would not shock you, brother; but I have been obliged to go to service, and I was recommended to miss Belmour by two ladies of quality, her near relations.’

Mr. Courteney sighed deeply at this account, and remained for several moments silent; at length recovering himself,

‘Miss Belmour, it seems (said he) did not always know your real name—You appear to be on the footing of a companion.’

‘Miss Belmour was pleased to take a liking to me,’ said Henrietta; ‘and, though ignorant of my birth, would not suffer me to continue with her in the character of a servant —I have been greatly obliged to her.’

"Yes, you are obliged to her," interrupted Mr. Courteney, kindling into rage at the remembrance of what had parted between them; ‘infamous wretch! she has done her part towards betraying you to ruin. You have been very imprudent, Henrietta; you have talked to her of Mr. Melvil too freely: she believes you are in love with him, and told me so, to encourage my attempts upon you.’

Henrietta blushed at the mention of Mr. Melvil, and presently after burst into tears at this discovery of miss Belmours baseness and ingratitude, but uttered not a word of complaint or resentment.

‘I will not suffer you to remain any longer with her,’ resumed Mr. Courteney; ‘I will go directly and provide you lodgings in the house of a worthy English family: I suppose you can have no objection to this proposal.’

‘Why do you look and speak so coldly, my dear brother?’ said Henrietta: ‘to be sure I can have no objection; dispose of me as you please, you are in the place of my father, I will obey you as such.’

"Forgive me, my dear," said he, tenderly pressing her hand, ‘my temper is warm; I have spoke to you harshly: indeed I am greatly alarmed at the disagreeable circumstances I find you in, you have been to blame, you own. Alas! my dear sister, what have you done to be thus abandoned by your aunt. I shall be on the rack till I have heard all your story; but this is not a proper place— Take a civil leave of miss Belmour, but do not acquaint her that you have discovered your brother, for I know not yet what measures I shall take; I will call for you in less than an hour in a coach.’

Henrietta promised to be ready; he took a tender leave of her, and departed.

CHAP. V.

The history continued.

OUR fair heroine continued some time alone in her chamber, so transported at this unexpected meeting with her brother, that she sometimes doubted whether her happiness was real, and whether all that had part was not an illusion of her fancy. When her spirits were a little composed, she began to consider what reason she should give miss Belmour for quitting her so suddenly: she rightly judged that the secrecy her brother had recommended to her, proceeded from his embarrassment with regard to Mr. Melvil; and she resolved, however strange her going away might appear to miss Belmour, to follow his directions punctually.

The treachery this young lady had been guilty of towards her, excited less resentment than grief for the conviction it brought her, that her principles were not changed. Several circumstances now rushed upon her memory, which served to convince her she was relapsing into her former indiscretions; and she doubted not but miss Belmour would be rejoiced to be delivered from her presence. This thought gave her courage to go to her immediately, and acquaint her with her intention.

‘A strange alteration has happened in my affairs, madam,’ said she, entering her apartment, "within this hour."

‘That letter has brought you some good news, I suppose,’ said miss Belmour, coldly.

‘It came from a dear and worthy friend madam,’ replied Henrietta; ‘and I have indeed heard some good news, which I little expected: but I am obliged to leave you and so suddenly, that I am afraid you will thin• me ungrateful for your kindness, in submitting to this necessity.’

"Pray make no apologies," interrupted miss Belmour, with great indifference, ‘you are entirely at your own liberty.’

Henrietta, who thought she had reason for this behaviour, was studying for some answer, which, without revealing the secret motive of her conduct, might tend in some measure to excuse it; when a servant introduced a gentleman into the room, who, though she had seen but once, she knew immediately to be Mr. Campley. She turned eagerly to observe how miss Belmour was affected by this visit; and discovering no signs of surprise or anger in her countenance, but an excess of joy and satisfaction, she concluded this meeting was concerted, and retired immediately, in great concern, to her own room.

Here, while she waited her brother's return, she employed herself in writing to miss Belmour. In this letter she repeated what she had often urged before, to guard her against the base designs of her lover: she recalled to her remembrance the resolution she had made, and the vows with which she had sealed it, never more to listen to his destructive addresses; and conjured her, by every motive of religion, honour, and virtue, to banish from her sight a man whose only aim was to ruin her.

She had scarce finished her letter, when a servant came to tell her, that some company waited for her in a coach. She made haste to seal it, and gave it to miss Belmour's maid, with orders to deliver it to her lady. At the door she found her brother, who helped her into the coach, and came in after her. He asked her, smiling, how she had parted with miss Belmour?

Henrietta told him, she had left her with company. ‘It is indifferent to me what company she sees now you are not with her,’ said he: ‘but my heart will not be at rest till I hear all your story, sister.’

Henrietta promised to satisfy him when they were arrived at her new lodgings. ‘I am also impatient (said she) to know your adventures; why you called yourself Freeman, and what was the cause of your not writing to me for so many months past.’

‘To say the truth, my dear sister (said he) I have been guilty of a little neglect in no• writing to you oftener: however, some of my letters must certainly have miscarried; for wrote to you both from Brussels and Genoa and I don't remember I had any answer, Th• account you gave me of Mr. Bal•'s kindne• in taking upon him the office of your guardian, and your happy settlement with lady Meadows, made me perfectly easy with regard to you. I had informed you that I was appointed governor to the marquis of —: this young nobleman had contracted a friendship with me during his stay at Leyden, where his governor dying, he wrote to his father the duke of—, in such pressing terms in my favour, which, joined to the knowledge of my birth, and very high recommendations from the university, had so much weight with him, that his grace, notwithstanding my youth, appointed me governor to his son, with a salary of five hundred pounds a year. I have endeavoured to acquit myself faithfully of this trust; my pupil and I have always lived together like brothers; and I flatter myself his father will have no cause to repent his having consigned him to my care.’

‘But why did you take the names of Melvil and Freeman?’ interrupted Henrietta.

"The marquis," replied Mr. Courteney, ‘had an inclination to travel without the parade of quality, that he might, as he wrote to his father, make nearer and more useful observations upon men and manners; and, being indulged in this scheme, we have travelled thro' France and Italy under those names, and with a very small equipage, And now, Henrietta, that you know the quality of my friend, I expect you will not entertain any ridiculous hopes from the liking he has expressed for you. I will do him the justice to own that he never formed any dishonourable designs upon you. The character of the woman you lived with, encouraged me to make you some shocking proposals. You behaved very properly; but, my dear sister, no words can express my anguish and confusion, when I heard you own the name of Courteney, and your connexions with Mr. Bale— Good Heaven! what did I not suffer at that moment— What a wretch did I seem in my own eyes!’

‘Let not this cruel remembrance disturb you now, my dear brother,’ said Henrietta; ‘I am so happy in finding you, that I forget all my past uneasinesses.’

Her looks bore delightful witness to the truth of what she said. Joy sparkled in her charm•¦ing eyes, heightened the rosy bloom of he• complexion, and animated her whole air: but clearly as she loved her brother, the assurance he gave her, that her lover had no part in th• dishonourable proposals he had made her, was circumstance that greatly increased her satisfaction in this meeting.

Mr. Courteney looked at her with admiration and delight, while a tender sense of the misfortunes she had been exposed to, almost melted him into tears. As soon as the coach stopped, he told her, that the master of the house they were going into was a very worthy man, with whom he was intimately acquainted, and whose prudence he could depend upon. ‘His wife (pursued he) is a virtuous, sensible woman: I know no family so proper to place you in as this; and it was extremely lucky that I thought of them upon this occasion, for it was not fit you should stay with miss Belmour, and in so short a time it was difficult to dispose of you properly.’

As soon as they alighted, Mrs. Knight came to receive Henrietta, and presented her husband to her. Both seemed greatly charmed with her appearance, and politely thanked Mr. Courteney for bringing them so agreeable a guest.

After a few compliments they withdrew, supposing the brother and sister would be glad of an opportunity to converse together in private. Mr. Courteney immediately drew his chair near his sister's, and, with a look of impatience, demanded the account she had promised him.

Henrietta blushed, and begged him not to judge her errors too severely. She then gave him a candid relation of all that had happened to her, from her mother's death till the time she met him at the inn, concealing nothing from him but miss Belmour's passion for Mr. Campley.

Mr. Courteney was variously affected during the course of her little story. He often changed countenance, but would not interrupt her. He observed with pleasure, that she laid no stress upon any part of her conduct, which might with justice challenge esteem and admiration, but appeared nicely conscious of every little imprudence; and, when she had ended, waited for his reply, with an anxiety that shewed she rather expected censure than praise.

"My dear Henrietta," said Mr. Courteney, at length, with tears in his eyes, ‘you have acted nobly; you cannot imagine how much your sufferings endear you to me, since you have behaved under them with such becom¦ing fortitude.’

"How happy you make me," cried Hen¦rietta, ‘by your approbation— Indeed I wa• afraid you would have chidden me sever•l• for leaving my aunt in the manner I did.’

"It was a rash step," replied Mr. Courteney, ‘but your subsequent conduct has effaced it; and I see not how you could have otherwise avoided being in the power of that viliain-priest.’

After some farther conversation on different parts of her story, he looked at his watch: "how fast the minutes fly!" said he, smiling. ‘My dear Henrietta, I must leave you now, yet I have a thousand things to say to you; but I will see you to-morrow morning. You will be very happy (continued he) with Mrs. Knight, and I shall have no scruple to trust you to her care, till I have conducted the marquis to London: we shall go in a day or two; and, after I have delivered my charge safe to his father, I will come back to Paris, and fetch you.’

Henrietta turned pale at these words: ‘then we are to part again soon!’ said she, in a melancholy accent.

‘It would be highly improper for you (replied he) to take this journey with us, on several accounts: I shall be concerned to leave you, but it must be so.’

"Could you not stay till Mr. Bale comes?" interrupted Henrietta; and, taking his letter out •f her pocket, ‘see here how affectionately he writes to me (added she) he proposes to be in Paris in three weeks, and insists upon my going to England with him.’

Mr. Courteney read the letter with great pleasure. Mr. Bale addressed her in it by the tender name of daughter; and assured her, that he would in every respect act like a father towards her. He praised her conduct in terms of the highest admiration, and begged her not to be uneasy at her aunt's desertion of her; since it was in his power to make her easy, and he was resolved to do so.

"This letter," said Mr. Courteney, after a pause, ‘will make some little alteration in my plan: I had resolved not to take any notice to the marquis, that I had discovered you to be my sister, but to make some excuse for your disappearing; however I see it will be necessary to wait for Mr. Bale. I congratulate you, my dear Henrietta, on the friendship o• so worthy a man.’

"But will you stay till he comes to Paris?• interrupted the tender, anxious Henrietta.

"May I depend upon your prudence, sister?• said Mr. Courteney. ‘It is possible the ma•¦quis may talk to you of love: if you give hi• the least encouragement, you will forfeit 〈◊〉 esteem for ever; it shall never be said, th• I took advantage of his youth to draw him into a marriage with my sister.’

"Oh! do not suspect me of such meanness," said Henrietta, blushing: ‘if the marquis was a thousand times more amiable than he is, and were I ever so much prejudiced in his favour, I have too just a sense of what I owe to my birth, to your honour, and my own, to admit of a clandestine address— You may be entirely easy upon this article.’

"I am satisfied," replied Mr. Courteney, tenderly pressing her hand; ‘and now, my dear Henrietta, adieu for this evening.’

"Don't fail to come to-morrow," said she, following him to the door. He smiled assentingly; and having taken leave of Mrs. Knight, who met him as he was going in search of her, he hurried home to his pupil, by whom he was expected with extreme impatience.

CHAP. VI.

Farther continuation of the history.

THE marquis, as soon as he entered his chamber, perceived that something extraordinary had happened to him.

‘Sure (said he, smiling) you have met with some strange adventure, Freeman; you look pleased, and yet there is a thoughtful air in your countenance.’

"I have had an adventure indeed," replie• Mr. Courteney (entering abruptly into an affai• which could not be concealed from him) ‘ 〈◊〉 have met with my sister here in Paris.’

"Your sister!" repeated the marquis; ‘yo• did not expect her, did you?’

"No, faith," replied Mr. Courteney; ‘n• did I know her when I saw her.’

"That is not surprising," said the marquis ‘she was very young when you parted, I ha• heard you say: I hope you will allow me 〈◊〉 pay my respects to her; but (added he, i• patiently) how does miss Belmour and 〈◊〉 fair friend?’

‘Her fair friend, as you are pleased to call her (replied Mr. Courteney) is my sister, whom for so many weeks I have seen almost every day without knowing her.’

‘Is it possible! (cried the marquis, surprised) miss Benson your sister! Sure you are not in earnest.’

‘Indeed I am (said Mr. Courteney) I discovered her by the oddest accident: miss Belmour herself did not know who she was; but while I was there, she brought her a letter, which had been inclosed to her; it was directed for miss Courteney, and came from Mr. Bale, my sister's guardian: she owned the name, and by that means I found out my sister. I see you are astonished (added Mr. Courteney) poor Henrietta has told me all her story; the repetition would be tedious, but—’

"How can you think so?" interrupted the marquis, eagerly: ‘can you doubt that I am extremely interested in every thing that concerns you.’

‘Excuse me, my dear marquis (said Mr. Courteney) I really cannot enter into particulars just now— Fortune still persecutes my dear father in his children. I thought my sister was happily settled with her aunt lady Meadows, who has no child, and adopted her; but the old lady, being a rigid Roman catholic, pressed her very much to change her religion, and was at last so strangely influenced by an artful priest, who is her chaplain, that she had formed a design to send my sister under the conduct of this fellow, to be shut up in a nunnery. The poor girl, who was, as I can collect by her account extremely apprehensive of being so entirely in the power of this sly priest, had no way to avoid this misfortune, but by leaving her aunt privately, who absolutely refused to be reconciled to her on any other condition than her changing her religion. Thus deserted, her guardian being abroad, and having nothing to expect from her relations, she chose to go to service, and was recommended to miss Belmour by the countess of —, her kinswoman.’

"What a wretch must your uncle be!" said the marquis, with tears in his eyes, ‘to permit such excellence—’ He stopped a moment; then suddenly grasping his hand, ‘O• my dear Freeman (pursued he) you have it in your power to make me happy— You know how ardently I love your charming sister—’

"This I was apprehensive of," interrupted Mr. Courteney. ‘I beg, my lord, that you will banish these thoughts.’

"What!" cried the marquis, hastily; ‘have you any objection to my passion for your sister?’

"Indeed I have, and a very strong one," replied Mr. Courteney, ‘and that is the certainty of the duke your father's disapprobation of it.’

"It is possible indeed," said the marquis, after a little pause, ‘that in the choice of a wife for me, my father will be influenced by the same motives that most fathers are: he will expect a large fortune with the person I marry; therefore, my dear Charles, you see the necessity there is for not consulting him in this case.’

"Sure you forget, my lord," interrupted Mr. Courteney, coolly, ‘what you once declared, that you would never enter into an engagement of this kind, contrary to the duke's inclinations.’

‘I remember I said so (replied the marquis; and were I to make a choice which he could reasonably object to, certainly it would be wrong, very wrong to disobey him: but if the want of a fortune can make my father disapprove of my affection for a young lady of miss Courteney's birth and merit, must I be governed by such sordid motives?’

The marquis went on to prove, by a great many arguments common enough on such occasions, that in the article of marriage, a parent had no right to lay any restraint upon the •uch nations of his child. Mr. Courteney did not think proper to enter into a dispute with him upon this subject: the patience with which he listened to him, made the young nobleman conclude he was not unwilling to come into his measures.

‘My dear Charles (added he, after a short pause) will you not be my advocate with your charming sister? I die with impatience to throw myself at her feet, and offer her my heart and hand.’

‘You cannot doubt, my lord (said Mr. Courteney) but that I think, my sister highly honoured by the esteem you express for her; but she would be very unworthy of it, if she was capable of admitting your addresses, either unknown to your father, or in opposition to his will. I may venture to answer for her, that she will not, by so unjustifiable a conduct, expose her brother to censure: and it gives me great concern to find you are no better acquainted with my sentiments, than to imagine I will so basely betray the trust the duke has reposed in me, and be accessary to your disposing of yourself in a manner which I am very sure he will not approve.’

‘Then I am to expect nothing from your friendship on this occasion, Mr. Courteney!’ replied the marquis, with an air of displeasure: ‘you are determined to raise difficulties to my design, instead of removing them; is this acting like a man whom I have loved like a brother, and whom it would be my highest happiness to call so.’

‘To call you brother with your father's consent, my lord (said Mr. Courteney) is an honour I cannot hope for, and which without it I do not wish.’

‘As noble and disinterested as you imagine this conduct to be (said the marquis, rising) it will have another name perhaps with persons less romantic in their notions than you are, However, sir, you are no more than the brother of miss Courteney; if I am happy enough to prevail with her to receive my addresses, I shall not think your consent necessary.’ He passed by him with a cool bow, as he pronounced these words, and retired to his own chamber.

CHAP. VII.

In which we are afraid some of our readers will think Mr. Courteney acts a very silly part.

MR. Courteney saw plainly, that by refusing to comply with his pupil's desires, he should entirely lose his friendship, but in a case where his honour was so greatly concerned, this consideration had no weight with him: and although he had a high opinion of his sister's candor and integrity, yet the intimation miss Belmour had given him of her regard for Mr. Melvil, made him apprehensive that she might be prevailed upon to listen to the vows of the marquis of—. He resolved therefore to keep the place of her abode a secret (for he knew he could depend upon the prudence of Mr. Knight and his wife) and to use his utmost endeavours to hasten the young lord's departure from France.

The marquis, mean time, was forming very different designs. It is so rare a thing for a man in love to be either reasonable or just, on occasions where the interest of his passion is concerned, that it is not surprising the marquis should impute his governor's conduct with regard to his sister to peevishness and caprice, and think himself extremely ill used by his not accepting his offers. He conceived miss Courteney to be equally injured by the opposition her brother made to the advancement of her fortune; and flattering himself that, if his person was not disagreeable to her, he should soon overcome any scruples Mr. Courteney might have suggested on account of the duke his father's disapprobation, he determined to consult him no further in the affair, but to address himself directly to her.

He spent part of the night in writing a letter to her, in which he declared his passion in the most tender and respectful terms, and begged she would allow him to wait upon her. The remaining hours were not spent in sleep, but in impatient longings for the morning, which was to confirm or destroy his hopes. As soon as it was light, he rose and walked about his room. He read over the letter he had written; he thought it but poorly expressed the ardor of his love: he sat down and wrote another, which he liked still less, and had recourse again to the first, after adding a postscript, in which he earnestly repeated his request to be indulged with a few moments private discourse with her.

He sealed up his letter, and directed it for miss Courteney. Her brother had not mentioned to him his having removed her from miss Belmour: he supposed she was still with her; but a doubt occurring to him, whether she was willing to assume her real name yet, he thought it best to put it in another cover, superscribed for miss Benson.

It was still too early to send to a lady's lodgings; he counted the hours with anxious impatience, and at length rung his bell for his servant. As soon as he appeared, he gave him the letter, recommending secrecy, and charging him not to return without an answer.

The valet, when he came back, brought him word that miss Benson was gone; and this was all the intelligence he could get. Miss Belmour's woman indeed had added with a sneer, that she went off with Mr. Freeman, and it was strange that his friend Mr. Melvil should not know where she was. This part of the message the fellow prudently suppressed; for he judged the business to be an amour, and that the young gentlemen were rivals, and he was afraid of making mischief.

The marquis, however, easily guessed that this sudden removal of miss Courteney was her brother's act: he dismissed his servant; and beginning now to be sensible how much it was in his governor's power to traverse his designs, and how obstinately he was bent upon doing so, he resigned himself up to the most violent transports of rage; and, during a few moments, all his thoughts ran upon revenge.

Mr. Courteney came into his chamber while he was under these agitations; and, seeing him walking about with a furious pace, ‘For Heaven's sake, my lord (said he) what is the matter with you?’

The marquis turned short upon him, and, with a voice broken with passion, exclaimed, "May I perish, Courteney, if I forgive you."

Mr. Courteney, who supposed this resentment was the consequence of their conversation the night before, replied calmly, ‘You are angry, my lord—This is no time to talk.’

He was going out of the room, but the marquis, hastily stepping between him and the door, shut it with great violence.

"If it is not your time to talk, sir, it is mine," said he.

"Very well, my lord," replied Mr. Courtney, with a composed look and accent, ‘I am ready to hear you.’

The young nobleman continued to walk in a fullen silence, as if resolved to be angry, and knew not well what cause to assign for it; when suddenly stopping,

‘I insist upon your telling me, sir (said he) why you have secreted your sister? Do you suspect I have dishonourable designs upon her?’

"Dishonourable designs upon my sister" repeated Mr. Courteney, kindling at the expression: ‘my lord, no man, while I have life, shall incur such a suspicion with impunity.’

"This spirit becomes one of your birth," replied the marquis; ‘but let me tell you, Mr. Courteney, your conduct is not altogether consistent; why must your sister be hurried, no body knows whither, and concealed with such wonderful caution?’

"Are you sure this is the case, my lord?" said Mr. Courteney.

"Yes, very sure," answered the marquis, hastily.

‘Since it was not I who gave your lordship this information,’ resumed Mr. Courteney, ‘you must have taken some trouble to come to the knowledge of it; and the motive that set you upon these enquiries sufficiently justifies my caution with regard to my sister.’

‘Then I am not worthy, it seems, to pay my addresses so your sister,’ said the marquis, peevishly.

‘Indeed, my lord, this is a very childish speech,’ replied Mr. Courteney; ‘you know your addresses would do honour to any woman: but the depressed state of my sister's fortune leaves her no right to expect a man of your quality for a husband; and she has too just a pride to submit to make a clandestine marriage; nor will I be branded with the imputation of having seduced my pupil into a marriage with my sister.’

"What have you to do with the affair at all?" replied the marquis, eagerly: ‘leave miss Courteney to act as she thinks proper; you need not make yourself answerable for my conduct on this occasion, I loved her before I knew her to be your sister; cannot your romantic honour satisfy itself with being passive in this business?’

‘I should but ill perform my engagements to your father, my lord,’ interrupted Mr. Courteney, ‘if I did not use my utmost endeavours to prevent you from displeasing him in a matter of so great importance as your marriage.’

‘How are you sure my father will be displeased?’ said the marquis: ‘miss Courteney's merit will justify my choice.’

"Put it upon that issue," replied Mr. Courteney; "ask his consent."

"Well, sir, I will ask his consent," resumed the marquis; ‘and now am I at liberty to visit your sister?’

‘If you intend, my lord, to be governed by the duke's advice (said Mr. Courteney) you will certainly be contented to wait his answer; and you cannot suppose, that knowing your sentiments so well as I do, I will permit my sister to receive your visits while we are ignorant of the duke's intentions.’

The marquis lost all patience at this unreasonable obstinacy, as he conceived it. ‘I renounce your friendship from this moment (said he) for ever; and, had you not a sister, I would resent this behaviour in another manner.’

He flung out of the room when he had said this; and, shutting himself up in his study, gave his valet orders to allow no body to disturb him.

Mr. Courteney was not so much offended at the harshness of his language, as to hinder him from feeling great concern for the uneasy state of his mind; and, notwithstanding his own temper was vehement enough, yet he was able to make some allowances for the transports of a young man, who saw himself so resolutely opposed in a point he had set his heart upon: but despairing to pacify his pupil without entering into his design, he determined to place his sister effectually out of his reach, and then, if he could not prevail upon him to return to England, nothing remained but to make the duke his father acquainted with the whole affair.

He waited some time in expectation that the marquis would come down to breakfast as usual; but, finding that he had ordered his chocolate to be brought to him in his study, he went to visit his sister, as he had promised.

The marquis heard him, as he passed by his door, call for his hat and sword; and, his valet entering a moment afterwards with the chocolate, he asked him, if Mr. Freeman was gone out? Being answered that he was, it suddenly came into his head, that he was going to see his sister.

‘Follow him instantly (said he to the fellow) and bring me word to what place he goes, and here is something to purchase your secrecy and diligence.’

The fight of two Louis d' ors, which the marquis gave him, left the valet no inclination to be discreet any longer. He ran out of the room with officious haste, fully determined to execute his commission with the utmost exactness. When he got into the street, he perceived Mr. Courteney walking leisurely on: he followed him at a distance, took particular notice of the house he entered; and, after waiting a few moments to see whether he came out again, he went back to the marquis with his intelligence.

The young lover did not doubt but he had discovered his mistress's abode; and in the joy this thought gave him, he bestowed many praises on his valet's ingenuity, together with a reward of two Louis d' ors more, which he liked still better. He then ordered him to give directions for his chariot to be got ready, while he assisted him to dress. His looks discovered such an excess of satisfaction, that the valet, under no apprehensions that what he had done would produce any disagreeable consequences, entered with vast delight upon his new post of confidant to his master. The marquis ordered him to stay at home till Mr. Freeman came in, and then immediately to come to him at the Hotel de —.

CHAP. VIII.

In which Mr. Courteney gives more instances of his folly.

WHILE Henrietta thus innocently sowed the seeds of discord between the two friends, she herself enjoyed a perfect composure of mind, and indulged the most pleasing reflections on the happy change of her fortune.

She was no longer in the humiliating condition of a servant; or, what to her was far more mortifying, a dependant upon the bounty of another; an unknown wanderer, without friends or protectors. She was now under the care of a brother, whom she tenderly loved, whose merit could not fail of distinguishing him, and of forcing that respect and consideration due to a noble birth, and which he, though in a deprest fortune, so nobly supported.

She was assured that her guardian was not only free from any unfavourable prejudices on account of her aunt's desertion of her, but that she might expect all the tender offices of a parent from him; and, what afforded the nice sensibility of her soul a more delicate satisfaction than all this, the only man in the world whom she was capable of regarding, with a preference to the rest of his sex; though, in so elevated a rank, had loved her in indigence and obscurity with honour, and justified the tender sentiments she entertained for him.

Her smiles, when she saw her brother appear, and the gaiety of her behaviour, convinced him, her mind was at ease; but his features still retained that impression of chagrin he had so lately felt from the marquis's causeless rage; and there was a solemnity in his manner, that, in an instant, changed the innocent chearfulness of Henrietta into anxiety and concern.

The presence of Mrs. Knight was a restraint upon them both. She perceived it; and as soon as the tea-table was removed (for the ladies were at breakfast when Mr. Courteney came in) she retired and left them at liberty.

The moment she was gone, Henrietta eagerly asked him, if any thing had happened to give him uneasiness since she saw him?

‘Yes (replied he abruptly) the marquis and I have quarrelled.’

"Quarrelled!" repeated Henrietta, trembling and pale as death, ‘have you quarelled?’

Mr. Courteney, who observed her emotion, continued to look at her so earnestly that she blushed and cast down her eyes. ‘You seem greatly affected with this accident (said he at last) I wish I had not mentioned it to you.’

"Could you suppose," said Henrietta, in an accent which had at least as much of grief as tenderness in it, ‘that I could hear with indifference what must necessarily be very afflicting to you?’

‘Your indifference perhaps, on this occasion (said Mr. Courteney) would be more welcome to me than the concern I see you under.’

Henrietta having pondered a little on the meaning of these words, replied in a firmer tone, ‘place some confidence in me, brother, you will find I shall deserve it.’

"My dear Henrietta," resumed Mr. Courteney, affected with the manner in which she spoke, and her expressive look, ‘you ought to forgive my doubts, when you reflect on what miss Belmour told me; the merit of my noble pupil has made an impression on your heart; but your marriage with him, sister, will bring everlasting infamy upon me.’

‘Have I not already declared my resolution to you upon this head?’ replied Henrietta.

"The marquis loves you," resumed Mr. Courteney: ‘he is rash and inconsiderate; he has no hope (and indeed it would be strange if he had) that the duke his father will consent to such an unequal match; yet he presses me to introduce him to you as a lover, and to favour his designs of marrying you privately. You may easily imagine what answer I gave him; the consequence is, that he has declared himself my enemy. We are upon very bad terms. But this is not my greatest concern: the marquis, if he can get access to you, will teaze you with solicitations; and, disposed as you are in his favour, have I not cause to apprehend you will listen to him but too readily?’

"Although I should confirm your suspicions," said Henrietta, with tears in her eyes, ‘yet I must again repeat I am grieved at this difference between your pupil and you. Nay I will own,’ pursued she, avoiding with a sweet bashfulness the earnest looks of her brother, ‘that I am not insensible of this young nobleman's affection for me; but, after this candid confession, you ought to believe me, when I assure you, that I will enter into no engagement with him without your approbation and to make you easy, I will comply with any measures you think proper, to avoid his pursuits.’

"I see I may rely upon you," said Mr. Courteney, charmed with her amiable frankness; ‘but, my dear Henrietta, I hope you will not allow this prepossession to take too deep root in your heart: sure your good sense, and the delicacy of your sentiments, will hinder you from giving way to a hopeless passion.’

"I beg you not to talk to me on this subject," interrupted Henrietta, tears, in spite of her endeavours to restrain them, flowing fast down her face; ‘only tell me what you would have me do to avoid the marquis: have you formed any plan? Doubt not of my readiness to comply with it.’

‘Have you any objections to boarding in a convent till Mr. Bale comes?’ said Mr. Courteney.

‘No (replied Henrietta, half smiling) for I cannot suspect you have a design upon my religion, as my aunt had, and mean to confine me all my life.’

"No, really," resumed Mr. Courteney, smiling likewise; ‘but it will be more difficult for the marquis to get access to you in a convent than here; and as it is probable enough that this affair will make some noise, it will be more for your reputation to have it known that you lived in such a respectable society, where there were so many witnesses of your conduct, and such exact regularity required, than in private lodgings, where you were accountable to no body for your actions.’

‘Then you intend to leave me before Mr. Bale comes?’ said Henrietta, sighing.

‘To be sure (replied Mr. Courteney) I will force the marquis away if possible; and if I find all my remonstrances ineffectual, the duke must interpose his authority.’

"You intend to write to him then?" said Henrietta.

‘Certainly (replied he) don't you think I ought to do so, sister?’

"Indeed I do," answered she.

‘I am glad of it (resumed Mr. Courteney) yet this procedure will embroil me more with the marquis; but I see no help for it, unless Mr. Bale should happen to come sooner than we expect, and take you with him to England I hope to prevail upon my pupil to have Paris in two or three days; and if I have not the satisfaction to leave you under Mr. Bale's care, convent is the fittest place for you to retire to.’

Henrietta, having reflected on her brother's proposal, found it so reasonable, and so much t• the advantage of her reputation, that she readily yielded to put it in immediate execution.

Mrs. Knight being desired to return, Mr. Courteney told her their design, and requested her assistance. She expressed some concern at being so soon to lose her agreeable guest, but undertook to transact: the affair; and it was resolved that she should go that day, and procure the young lady to be admitted as a pensioner in the Augustine nunnery of English ladies in Paris.

Mr. Courteney, having promised his sister to come and conduct her to the convent the next day, took leave of her, highly satisfied with her docility, and returned home. He was surprised to hear that the marquis was gone abroad; but having no suspicion of his intention to visit Henrietta, whose abode he concluded was still a secret to him, he was only concerned left his health should suffer, by venturing out before it was fully re-established.

The marquis's valet no sooner saw Mr. Courteney return, than he ran immediately to acquaint his master, who set forwards, with a beating heart, to visit his mistress. The valet had given so exact a direction, that the coach-man had no difficulty to find the house. The marquis alighted the moment the door was opened, and asking the servant for miss Courteney, was instantly introduced into a parlour, where Henrietta was sitting alone, Mrs. Knight having just left her to go and execute her commission.

The sight of the marquis threw her into the utmost confusion. She rose, however, and received him with great respect: he approached her bowing, and made her a genteel compliment upon her happy meeting with her brother.

Henrietta would not suffer this subject to be dwelt upon long, left it should lead to circumstances too interesting. She changed the conversation to indifferent matters, and took care that it should not flag a moment; so that the marquis, partly embarrassed by that awe which always accompanies a sincere passion, and partly by the prudent management of Henrietta, found he had protracted his visit to a considerable length, without drawing any advantage from it.

Alarmed at the thoughts of losing an opportunity, which the rigid and inflexible temper of his governor might prevent him from meeting with again, he suddenly assumed courage • make her a declaration of his passion, but 〈◊〉 terms the most tender and respectful, and wi• an explicitness that became one of his rank a• fortune, to use towards a young lady in her delicate circumstances, whom he would not for a moment leave in doubt of the sincerity of his professions, and his firm resolution to adhere to them.

Henrietta listened to him with a graceful modesty; and when he earnestly pressed for her answer, she assured him, that she was very sensible of the honour he did her, and should always think herself obliged to him for having entertained such favourable sentiments of her, as could make him overlook the inequality there was between them. As for the rest, she referred him to her brother, who, she said, was in the place of a father to her, and by whose advice and direction she was determined to be governed entirely.

The marquis would have had no reason to be dissatisfied with this answer, if he had not known that he had nothing to expect from an application to her brother, and the apprehension that she also knew it, and therefore took this method to free herself from his importunities, gave him so much concern, that he turned pale, and sighing, fixed his eyes upon the ground. His air, his attitude, his looks, were all so moving, so expressive of tenderness, anxiety, and grief, that Henrietta durst not trust herself to behold him, lest he should turn his eyes towards her, and discover in her's the too great interest she took in his uneasiness.

Some moments passed in an affecting silence on both sides, during which the marquis remained immoveably fixed in the same pensive posture, till rouzed by the opening of the door, and the appearance of Mr. Courteney. Henrietta's face was in an instant covered with blushes: the marquis seemed greatly embarrassed. Mr. Courteney shewed some surprise at first; but, recovering himself, he spoke to his pupil with an easy air, and relieved both him and his sister from their confusion, by entering immediately into an indifferent conversation.

The marquis drew a favourable omen from this behaviour: his looks resumed their usual sweetness and vivacity; and, during a who• hour that they continued together, nothing cou• be more spirited and lively than the discou• between three persons, who had the most perfect tenderness for one another, yet, from the several circumstances, were obliged mutually oppose and give pain.

The marquis at length, with apparent relu•¦tance, put an end to his visit, as did Mr. Courteney likewise, though he was 〈◊〉 d•s• talking to his sister in private. When they were in the chariot together, the young lord was several times upon the point of pressing his governor again upon the subject of his love, as he seemed to be less inclined than formerly to oppose him; but he was restrained from entering into any explanation, by his apprehension of destroying those hopes he had so lately began to entertain, and of rendering his access to Henrietta more difficult for the future: Mr. Courteney also had his reasons for preventing any such explanation, and industriously amused him with other discourse.

The marquis could not help thinking it strange that he took no notice of the visit he had made his sister: but as love is ever ready to flatter its own wishes, he began to imagine that Mr. Courteney had relaxed in the severity of his resolutions, but knew not yet how to yield with a good grace; he favoured his embarrassment therefore for the present, and they passed the remaining part of the day in their usual company and diversions.

When they came home at night, the marquis desired to have an hour's conversation with him; but Mr. Courteney, complaining of a sudden head-ach, excused himself, and retired to his own chamber.

The next morning, before his pupil was up, he repaired to Mrs. Knight's. She told him, that every thing was agreed on for the reception of the young lady; and he had the satisfaction to find his sister making preparations for her removal, without any appearance of discontent. She acquainted him with what had passed in the conversation between the marquis and her.

"I have no doubt of his affection for you," said Mr. Courteney; ‘we must leave the event of it to Providence, and act so as that whatever happens, we may not incur censure.’

As soon as breakfast was over, Henrietta, accompanied by Mrs. Knight and her brother, went in a coach to the convent, where she was very civilly received by the prioress. Mr. Courteney promised to visit her soon, and took leave of her, to wait upon Mrs. Knight home; after which he returned to the marquis, who had enquired for him several times.

CHAP. IX.

In which the reader, it is presumed, can make no discoveries concerning the event of this history.

THE marquis, when he saw him enter his chamber, approached him with an obliging air, and affectionately pressing his hand,

‘May I hope, my dear Courteney (said he) that you have overcome your fantastic scruples, and that you will favour my pretensions to your charming sister. I will make you no apology for stealing a visit to her; you would, I am sure, have done the same in my situation. Indeed, Charles, you must either resolve to give me miss Courteney, or to see me miserable. She referred me to you; my happiness depends upon a single word of your's: can you be so cruel to refuse me this instance of your friendship?’

"You know, my lord," replied Mr. Courteney, ‘that there is not any thing you can desire of me, consistent with my honour, which I would refuse; but, unless I would make myself infamous, I cannot yield to your marrying my sister without the duke's consent. Hear what I have to propose,’ continued he, perceiving him to be in a violent emotion; ‘let us return to England immediately. You have often told me, that the duke is a most tender father; you are an only child: it is possible he may be prevailed upon to yield to your desires, if you tell him you cannot be happy without my sister. Let us make the trial at least.’

"I agree to it," interrupted the marquis, eagerly, ‘provided you will promise me, that if my father is so unreasonable as to refuse his consent, you will no longer oppose my marriage. I am of age; it is fit, that in a matter of such importance to the future happiness of my whole life, I should be at liberty to follow my inclinations. Speak, Charles, will you make me this promise?’

"Indeed, I will not, my lord," replied Mr. Courteney, "you must not expect it."

"Detested obstinacy!" cried the marquis, flinging his hand away, which he had held till this moment, ‘what a wretch am I to have my happiness depend upon the will of a capricious man, who mikakes his romantic whims for honour! But observe what I say, Courteney,’ added he, turning hastily towards him, ‘you shall not hinder me from visiting your sister, nothing but her absolute commands shall prevent my seeing her.’

‘My sister (said Mr. Courteney) will stay no longer in France, than till Mr. Bale (to whose care her mother left her at her death) returns from Montpelier: he is to conduct her to England; and she is gone to board in a convent till his arrival.’

"Gone to a convent!" repeated the marquis; "this is your scheme, I suppose."

"I hoped to prevail upon you," said Mr. Courteney, ‘since you are quite recovered, to leave Paris immediately; and I thought a convent the properest place for my sister to reside in till her guardian comes.’

The marquis instantly running over in his thoughts the use that might be made of this intelligence, replied, that he had no inclination to leave Paris yet; and broke off all farther conversation by quitting the room.

In effect, he had resolved to make an application to Mr. Bale, supposing, that since he had not the same foundation for scruples as his governor, he would readily listen to an offer so advantageous for his ward.

Mr. Courteney penetrated into his views, and doubtful how Mr. Bale would act, and whether his sister, having the sanction of his approbation, might not give way to the motions of he• own heart, and encourage the addresses of the marquis; he concluded it necessary to make the duke acquainted with the whole affair, that 〈◊〉 might take such measures as he judged proper 〈◊〉 restrain his son from an action which might in• his displeasure.

He wrote accordingly that day, and having thus discharged his duty, his mind was more at case.

The marquis, full of hope that his new scheme would be successful, made no effort to see Henrietta, for fear of raising suspicions in her brother: but the coldness and reserve with which he treated him, sufficiently shewed how much he resented his conduct.

Henrietta was soon reconciled to a retirement, in which she had full liberty to indulge her reflections; for she was in love enough to find more satisfaction in being alone, than in the gayest and most agreeable society. Her brother did not fail to visit her every day: he found her satisfied with her situation; and, in appearance, no otherwise affected with his approaching departure, which he gave her room to expect, than what her tenderness for him might well allow of.

In the mean time the duke of—, having received Mr. Courteney's letter, was greatly pleased with the nobleness and generosity of his behaviour. He wrote to him immediately, in terms of the highest friendship and regard; and, acquainting him with the purport of his letter to his son, recommended it to him to hasten his departure, assuring him, he had the firmest reliance upon his integrity and honour.

The packet, to avoid suspicion, had been directed as usual to the marquis, who was not surprised to find a letter in it for Mr. Courteney, to whom his father was accustomed to write often: he sent it to him immediately; and, after reading his own, he went to Mr. Courteney's chamber, holding it still in his hand.

‘My father writes to me (said he) to leave Paris as soon as possible. He does not expresly say that he is ill; but, from some hints in his letter, I can collect that this is the cause of his extreme earnestness to see me. You cannot imagine how much I am affected with this accident (pursued he, sighing). I love my father: I did not know how much I loved him, till I feared his loss. I am determined to set out to-morrow from Paris; but I must see your sister first, Courteney, nor ought you to refuse me the satisfaction of telling her, that I depart with a firm resolution never to be but her's.’

"Well, my lord," replied Mr. Courteney, after a little pause, ‘we will go together, and take leave of my sister.’

‘I was to blame (said the marquis) to expect any indulgence from you: we will go together then, since it must be so.’ He retired again to his own apartment to write to his father; and in the mean time Mr. Courteney gave the necessary orders for their journey the next morning.

Henrietta had been prepared by a billet from her brother, for the visit that was intended her. The news of their departure had cost her some tears; but when she was informed they waited for her in the parlour of the convent, she appeared before them with all that soft composure and dignity of manners, which never forsook her in the most trying situations.

Mr. Courteney watched the turn of his countenance when the marquis accosted her, and was pleased to see it equally free from embarrassment and affectation; and that, notwithstanding all the expressive language of her lover's eyes, she had so much command over herself, as to seem the least interested person in company.

Politeness obliged the marquis to shorten his visit, that the brother and sister might be at liberty to take a private leave of each other. He rose from his seat, and approached Henrietta, with an air that left her no room to doubt of his intention to say something particular to her; and now, for the first time, her looks betrayed some little confusion.

‘I cannot go away, madam (said he) without renewing the declaration I made you some days ago; and I take this opportunity to assure you, before your brother, who knows the sincerity of my heart, that my sentiments for you will ever be the same: and, if you do not forbid it, I will carry away with me the dear hope of being able one day to merit your esteem.’

Henrietta courtefied in silence; but her blushes, and the soft confusion she was in, seemed no unfavourable omen for the marquis: he bowed respectfully, and retired.

Mr. Courteney, affecting not to perceive his sister's concern, entered immediately after his pupil's departure into other discourse. He recommended it to her to improve her guardian's esteem for her, and assured her he would visit lady Meadows, and use his utmost endeavours to remove her prejudices, and restore her to the place she formerly held in her affection: at her desire likewise he promised to call upon Mrs. Willis, to whom she had been so greatly obliged. He charged her to keep up no sort of intimacy with miss Belmour, though she should seek it, but permitted her, in company with Mr. Bale, to pay her a farewel visit; and, indeed, the conduct of that young lady, since the arrival of Mr. Campley, justified these precautions.

Henrietta promised to follow all his directions. He said a thousand affectionate things to her; and then, desiring to see the prioress, he tenderly recommended his sister to her care, took a short leave, and went home; while Henrietta retired to her chamber to weep.

The marquis was not visible till the next morning, when he was informed that the post-chaise was at the door. His extreme melancholy during the whole journey, gave his governor great concern: but he in vain attempted to amuse him; for though the marquis behaved to him with all imaginable respect, yet he was so cold and reserved, that he found it impossible to renew his former freedom with him.

The duke of — had informed them, that he should be at his country-seat; and, immediately upon their landing in England, they repaired thither: the duke received his son with the most tender transports, and his governor with every mark of esteem and regard.

The morning after their arrival, he sent for Mr. Courteney into his closet, and thanked him in very affectionate terms for having so faithfully and honourably discharged his trust. He politely avoided mentioning the affair of the young lord's passion for his sister, because she was his sister; but said enough to convince him, that he had the most grateful sense of his disinterested conduct upon that occasion. He settled on him, during his life, the sum he had allowed him while he travelled with the marquis; and offered him, in the most cordial manner, all his interest towards procuring him an establishment suitable to his birth.

Mr. Courteney received these instances of the duke's friendship for him with respect and gratitude; but he was more touched with the old nobleman's delicacy with regard to his sister, than with all the favours conferred on himself.

The interest of this sister, whom he loved with the most tender affection, made him hasten his departure from the duke's seat, that he might wait on his aunt, who he had heard was in London. The duke embraced him tenderly at parting, and obliged him to promise that he would return as soon as possible. The marquis lost all his reserve and coldness, when he took leave of his governor, his friend, and, what was more than all, the brother of his adored Henrietta.

"You have used me unkindly," said he, in a low voice; yet pressing him tenderly to his breast, "but I shall always love you."

Mr. Courteney let fall some tears, but made no answer; and immediately after mounting his horse, he set out for London, attended by his own servant, and one of the duke's, whom his grace had ordered to escort him.

CHAP. X.

Which leaves the reader still in doubt.

MR. Courteney, when he came within a short distance of London, dismissed the duke's servant, with compliments to his grace and the marquis, and proceeded 〈◊〉 his journey. It came into his head to alight 〈◊〉 the house of Mrs. Willis, from whom it was possible he might receive some intelligence that would be of use to him. The good woman received him with great civility; but, when he told her his name, she was in transports, and enquired for her beloved miss Courteney with the tender anxiety of a mother.

Mr. Courteney told her, that his sister would soon be in London with her guardian. He took occasion to thank her for her friendly care of her, which Henrietta had mentioned with the utmost gratitude; and assured her, he should always consider himself as highly obliged to her.

‘How largely do I share in my dear miss Courteney's joy (said she) for so happy a meeting with her beloved brother! Heaven will, I doubt not, shower its blessings on her; for sure if ever mortal deserved them she does, O! sir, your sister is an angelic creature—’

Mrs. Willis, indulging the tender effusions of her heart, continued to expatiate on Henrietta's virtues, till Mr. Courteney, though not displeased to hear her, interrupted her, to ask some questions concerning his aunt.

‘I was going to write to miss Courteney today, sir (replied she) for I have great news to acquaint her with: that vile priest, who was the cause of all her uneasiness, has at length shewn himself in his true colours. The sanctified hypocrite was detected in an amour with lady Meadows's woman: this affair has opened her eyes; she thinks her niece has been greatly injured by the misrepresentations of this wretch, whom she has discarded with infamy; and the first proof she has given of her favourable disposition towards miss Courteney, was her taking again her former woman, whom she had dismissed on account of her attachment to the young lady. I had this intelligence 〈◊〉 Mrs. White herself; for so your aunt woman, sir, is called. She says she does not doubt but her lady will write to miss Courteney in the most tender manner, and invite her home again.’

This news gave Mr. Courteney great satisfaction: he resolved not to delay a moment visiting his aunt; his portmantua had been carried into a chamber, by Mrs. Willis's directions, and thither he retired to dress. As soon as he was ready, he got into a hackney-coach, and fraught with a thousand kind wishes from this faithful friend of his sister, he proceeded to the house of lady Meadows.

He was so lucky as to find her at home, and sent in his name without any hesitation. The old lady, in a violent flutter of spirits, advanced as far as the door of her apartment to meet her nephew. His graceful form and polite address prejudiced her instantly in his favour; and she received him with all the tenderness he could have wished, and with much more than he expected.

Her first enquiries were for Henrietta. Mr. Courteney was pleased with this solicitude; but he observed that, during the course of their conversation, her attention with regard to his sister, decreased considerably. He praised her with all the modesty, yet with all the affection of a brother.

Lady Meadows, who had heard a very advantageous account of her niece from the countess, her good friend, assured him that she knew his sister's merit, and had restored her to that tenderness and esteem, which some little errors of her's, and some unjust suspicions of her own, which had been artfully infused into her, had robbed her of. She expressed great satisfaction at hearing of her guardian's kindness: but her words, "I hope he will do something for her." gave Mr. Courteney great concern; who, from the first moment that he had heard Henrietta was likely to recover her favour, had formed a scheme to make her and the marquis happy.

Lady Meadows perceived that he was affected with that expression: she therefore added that his sister might depend upon a welcome reception from her, whenever she returned to England.

Though there was nothing to object to the words of this declaration, yet there was a great deal to the manner of it. In the coldness with which she made it, he saw the disappointment of his hopes. In reality, lady Meadows had begun to entertain a prodigious fondness for her nephew; and Henrietta had now but the second place in her affection. The longer she conversed with him, the more this fondness increased. Women are ever readier to discover merit in the other sex than their own. Henrietta had as many amiable qualities as her brother; but lady Meadows was not so sensible of them: and Mr, Courteney made as great a progress in her affections in three hours, as his sister had done in as many months.

When he rose up to take his leave, she declared, with some vehemence, that he must have no other home than her house. ‘You have an aunt (added she, smiling) tho' you have no uncle, nor any other relations.’ Mr. Courteney reddened with indignation at the mention of his unworthy uncle; but, recovering himself, he made her suitable acknowledgments for her kindness, and, at her desire, immediately dispatched a messenger to Mrs. Willis, to acquaint her that he should not return, and at the same time sent orders to his servant to bring his portmantua.

Lady Meadows having given directions for an apartment to be prepared for Mr. Courteney, they passed the evening together with great satisfaction, particularly on the part of the old lady, who thought herself extremely happy in having so accomplished a youth for her nephew. All her thoughts ran upon the pleasure she should have in shewing him to her friends and acquaintance, and of piquing his unnatural uncle, by openly professing her regard for him.

More than a week after his arrival was spent in a continual succession of visits, to all which he attended her; and so absolutely had he won her heart in that time, that she determined on nothing less than the making him her sole heir. Mr. Courteney, who was desirous of improving the favour he was in to his sister's advantage, took all opportunities to revive his aunt's affection for her; so that to please him, she expressed an impatience to see her. He received letters from her, and from the duke of —, the same day. Henrietta informed him, that she had heard from Mr. Bale, and that she expected him in Paris in a few days: that the affairs he had to settle there, would detain him but a short time; after which they were to set out immediately for England. She added, that the marquis had wrote to her, and gave him a brief recapitulation of his letter, which seemed to be dictated by the most ardent affection, and the strictest principles of honour.

The duke's letter contained only an earnest request to see him as soon as possible. Lady Meadows was very unwilling to part with him, though he assured her, he would return in two or three days. He spent part of the night in answering his sister's letter, and set out the next morning in a post-chaise for the duke'• seat: he reached it in the evening at support time.

He found only the duke and his son at table; in the countenance of the latter, he observed a profound melancholy, which sensibly affected him. The duke received him with great kindness. The marquis spoke little, but seemed pleased to see him. The next morning the duke sent for Mr. Courteney into his closet.

"What shall I do with my son?" said he to him abruptly, as soon as he entered, ‘you see the way he is in; he will certainly break my heart. I made him a very advantageous proposal three days ago: he tells me positively his heart is engaged; yet he knows I am very desirous the match I mentioned to him should take place. This is such an instance of obstinacy and disobedience, as I know not how to pardon. Little did I imagine that his return, which I so passionately wished for, would be productive of so much uneasiness to me.’

The duke paused here, and looked earnestly at Mr. Courteney, who, not knowing what it was he expected from him, or to what aim his words were directed, continued silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground.

"I see you are concerned," resumed the duke, ‘for the trouble this unlucky affair gives me.’

"Indeed I am, my lord, most sincerely," replied Mr. Courteney.

‘Then I may depend upon your readiness to assist me in removing it (said his grace) hear what I have to propose—Your sister, allowing for the warmth of an admirer's imagination, appears to me, by my son's ••∣count of her, to have a great deal of merit: such a young lady cannot be without pretenders to her heart. It would give me great pleasure to contribute to her establishment: if you have a match in view for her, let me know if I can forward it, either by my purse or my interest. I candidly confess to you, that meer generosity is not my motive for making you this offer: my son's passion is strengthened by hope; when your sister is married, I may find it less difficult to prevail upon him to yield me the obedience I require, and which I have a right to expect.—You do not answer me, Mr. Courteney,’ added his grace, after a little pause, ‘is there any thing disagreeable in this proposal?’

"Thus pressed, my lord," replied Mr. Courteney, ‘it becomes me to speak with plainness and sincerity— I have no power over my sister's inclinations, and no consideration whatever should oblige me to hurry her into a marriage, which her own choice did not direct her to. Besides, I am not without suspicions, that the merit of the marquis has made some impression on her heart; and, though she has sacrificed it to her honour and duty, yet it will for some time, no doubt, render her deaf to any offer that could be made her. I am very certain, my lord, that she will never encourage the addresses of the marquis without your grace's consent; but were she capable of acting differently from my hopes and expectations, my honour is concerned to prevent it: and I most solemnly assure your grace, that my sister shall never be the wife of the marquis without your express approbation.’

The duke could not help being pleased with the candor and spirit of this reply. ‘We must leave this affair then as we found it,’ said he: ‘I am so well convinced of your integrity and honour, that I rely upon you entirely to prevent any consequences that may be disagreeable to me.’

The duke that moment perceiving his son crossing the terrace opposite to his window, desired Mr. Courteney to join him. ‘You have still great influence over the marquis, (said he) try what your persuasions can do to make him alter his behaviour; this obstinacy of his both afflicts and offends me.’

Mr. Courteney bowed, and quitted the duke's closet immediately. The marquis, when he saw him coming towards him, stopped to wait for him.

"You have been closeted with my father," said he to him, smiling, ‘may I know the subject of your conversation?’

"I dare engage your lordship guesses," replied Mr. Courteney, smiling likewise.

‘I believe I do (said the marquis) the duke has been complaining of me for my disobedience, has he not?’

‘His grace tells me he has made you a proposal, my lord, which you have rejected (answered Mr. Courteney) and he is under great concern about it.’

"Well, I am sorry for his uneasines•," interrupted the marquis: ‘but there 〈◊〉 help for it.’

‘Ah, my lord (said Mr. Courteney) have I not cause to be very uneasy also? I who know your motive for disobliging the duke, in a point he seems to have so much at heart?’

"You are mistaken," resumed the marquis, ‘I should act as I do, tho' I had never seen miss Courteney. But tell me, my dear Charles, have you heard from your sister?’

"I have, my lord," replied he.

"She is well, I hope," resumed the marquis, sighing.

"She says nothing to the contrary," answered Mr. Courteney; ‘but I find your lordship has wrote to her.’

"Then she mentions me in her letter?" cried the marquis, eagerly: ‘I did indeed write to her, but she would not favour me with an answer. But, dear Charles (continued he) have you not miss Courteney's letter about you? let me see that part where I am mentioned. Shew me only my name, written by her dear hand, you know not what pleasure it will give me to see it.’

‘Upon my honour I have not her letter here,’ said Mr. Courteney. ‘Why, why, my lord,’ pursued he, in great concern, ‘will you indulge this fatal passion for my sister? you must by this time be convinced that it can produce nothing but uneasiness to the duke, yourself, to me, and even to her.’

"To her!" repeated the marquis. ‘O! Charles, your sister is wrapped up in indifference and reserve; she has not the least sensibility for what I suffer upon her account.’

‘You are too generous, my lord (replied Mr. Courteney) to wish my sister should encourage any sentiments for you but those of respect and esteem. It would be presumption in her to hope for the duke's approbation of your passion; and were she too sensible of it, she must be unhappy.’

"It is enough for me to be unhappy," resumed the marquis, sighing; ‘unhappy in the avarice of my father, to whom I have laid open my whole heart. The want of a fortune is all the objection he has to miss Courteney; for he appeared charmed with her character, and her birth he knows. Unhappy too, in a rigid friend, who sacrifices me to the fantastic notions he has formed of honour. O! Charles, little did I imagine once that you would have contributed all in your power to make me miserable.’

‘Indeed, my lord (replied Mr. Courteney) this reflection is cruel: this very moment all my thoughts are employed on the means to make you happy.’

"Now you are again my friend," interrupted the marquis, embracing him eagerly: ‘will you then at last give me your charming sister. All that duty can require I have performed: I have implored my father's consent; he has had the cruelty to refuse it me; and this on a motive so sordid, that I am justifiable in following my inclinations without soliciting him any more.’

"You mistake my intentions, my lord," interrupted Mr. Courteney: ‘no, never expect that I will consent to your marrying my sister without the duke's approbation.’

‘What then did you mean (said the marquis) by the hopes you gave me just now?’

‘To prevail, if possible, upon the duke to consent to your marriage,’ replied Mr. Courteney.

The marquis sighed, and cast down his eyes, as if hopeless that this expedient would succeed: but would not say any thing to divert him from his purpose: yet he thought it strange that he should undertake a task, which, interested as he was, seemed less proper for him than any other person.

Mr.Courteney guessed his thoughts, but would not explain himself any farther. In reality, what the marquis had said of his father's having no other objection to his choice but the want of a fortune, confirmed him in his design of using the favour he was in with lady Meadows to the advantage of his sister; and he was not without expectations of prevailing upon her, by the prospect of so honourable a match for her niece, to do as much for her as she had formerly promised, in case she had married the old baronet.

The marquis, who beheld him earnestly, perceived something was labouring in his mind, and he began to entertain hopes of success, tho' he knew not on what reasonably to found them. "I cannot," said Mr. Courteney, observing the tender solicitude with which he gazed on him, ‘communicate to you the scheme I have formed to reconcile the duke to your wishes, for reasons which will be obvious enough hereafter. Only thus much I will say to satisfy you, that I think it is highly probable I shall succeed; but there is one condition which you must yield to, and which I tell you plainly is the price I set upon my endeavours to serve you in this affair.’

"Name it," interrupted the marquis, eagerly, ‘it must be a strange one indeed if I do not comply with it.’

‘You must give me a solemn promise, my lord (resumed Mr. Courteney) not to seek my sister's consent to a clandestine marriage, if I should fail in my endeavours to procure the duke's approbation, and you must make the same promise to his grace likewise.— Nay, my lord,’ pursued he, observing that he hesitated, ‘you risk nothing by entering into this engagement, for I am bound by oath, as well as by honour, to prevent my sister from being your's upon any terms but the duke's express consent; and, depend upon it, you will never gain her's but on the same condition.’

‘Well (replied the marquis) you have my promise, and I will make the same declaration to my father: it will be time enough to tell him, if your scheme proves unsuccessful, my fixed resolution never to marry at all, if I do not marry miss Courteney.’

Mr. Courteney had already gained so important a point, that he did not think it necessary to combat this resolution at that time. They walked together into the house; and the marquis conceiving that it might be of some advantage to Mr. Courteney's scheme to take an early opportunity of making the promise he required of him, the duke had that satisfaction in his next private conversation with his son, and was charmed with this new instance of Mr. Courteney's integrity.

The marquis, after having long puzzled himself with conjectures about the design Mr. Courteney had formed, at length concluded that he had some expectations from the earl of —, his uncle, in favour of his sister; and he was so unfortunately circumstanced between his father's avarice and Mr. Courteney's strict principles of honour, that he was reduced to wish earnestly for the success of an expedient, which he would have disdained, if he had been master of his own actions. Mr. Courteney at parting, which was in a few days, begged him to rely securely upon his friendship, and to be mindful of the promise he had given him, which the young lord again confirmed.

CHAP. XI.

In which the history draws near to a conclusion.

MR. Courteney found his short absence had rather endeared him to his aunt, than lessened the ardor of her fondness; encouraged by her behaviour, he was several times upon the point of laying open to her the whole affair of his pupil's passion for Henrietta, and the difficulties which obstructed so advantageous a match; difficulties which she could so easily remove: but he hoped a great deal from the presence of Henrietta, which it was highly probable would revive the old lady's tenderness for her, and from the interposition of Mr. Bale, who, it was not to be doubted, would enter heartily into the interest of his ward, for whom he expressed so tender an affection.

While he waited in anxious expectation of a letter from his sister, to acquaint him when she was to leave Paris, with her guardian, he was pleasingly surprised with a billet from Mr. Bale himself, requesting him to meet miss Courteney and him at the house of Mrs. Willis, where they were just arrived.

Mr. Courteney, without communicating this news to lady Meadows, hastened to see his beloved sister. The moment he entered the room, where she was sitting with her guardian and Mrs. Willis, she flew to receive him with a transport of joy. He embraced her tenderly; and Mr. Bale advancing to salute him, he in the politest manner, thanked him for his generous care of Henrietta.

Mr. Bale was extremely pleased to hear that she might depend upon an affectionate reception from her aunt. "And now, my child," said he; for so he tenderly affected to call her, ‘since I have delivered you safe into the hand▪ of your brother, I will leave you, and a day or two hence I will visit you at your aunt's, and settle your affairs in a manner which I hope will not be disagreeable to you.’

Henrietta, who, from some past conversations with him, well knew the kind purport of these words, by a grateful look and a respectful courtesy, expressed her acknowledgment. Mr. Courteney, seeing him prepare to leave them, begged he would favour him with a few moments private conversation. Mr. Bale readily consented; upon which Mrs. Willis shewed them into another room, and returned to load her dear miss Courteney with a thousand tender caresses.

Mean time Mr. Courteney gave the friendly guardian of his sister a brief account of the marquis's passion for her, and the conduct he had observed in that affair. He added, that he believed it would be easy to engage the duke's consent to his son's marriage with Henrietta, provided her aunt would act as generously towards her, as she had formerly given her reason to expect.

‘From several hints (said he) which lady Meadows has thrown out, and from the great kindness she expresses for me, I am apprehensive that she intends to transfer her bounty from my sister to me; but as my circumstances, though not affluent, are easy, and as I have nothing so much at heart as the happiness of my friend and my sister, I will most: chearfully relinquish in her favour all my expectations from lady Meadows. The prospect of so advantageous a match will probably have some weight with her aunt; and the mention of it will come with propriety from you, sir, as the guardian of Henrietta. Lady Meadows will then explain herself clearly; and we shall have an opportunity given us of pressing her to remove, by her generosity, the only obstacle that obstructs my sister's advancement.’

Mr. Bale was prodigiously affected with the uncommon nobleness of this proceeding. He took the young gentleman's hand, and, giving it an affectionate shake, ‘I shall love and honour you while I live (said he) for this generous proposal: doubt not of my ready concurrence in every measure for your sister's advantage. I love her as well as if she was my own daughter; and the inconveniences she has suffered through the folly and imprudence of some of my family, require that I should make her amends, by doing every thing in my power to make her happy.’

"I will wait upon lady MeadoWs," pursued he, ‘to-morrow in the afternoon, and then we will talk over this affair.’ Mr. Courteney told him, he would prepare his aunt for the visit he intended her. After which, Mr, Bale went away, and he joined his sister and her friend. A coach being ordered, they took leave of Mrs. Willis, whom Henrietta promised to visit again very speedily. Mr. Courteney had some discourse with his sister as they went, concerning the marquis; but carefully avoided mentioning his design to her, lest he should raise hopes which might be unhappily disappointed.

Henrietta was under some perturbation at the thoughts of appearing before her aunt, whose displeasure, against her, and unjust suspicions, all recurred to her memory; but the reception the old lady gave her, immediately effaced those impressions: it was perfectly kind and affectionate, without the least mixture of upbraiding or reproach.

"I had a mind to surprise you, madam," said Mr. Courteney, who with infinite pleasure beheld his sister so tenderly embraced by her aunt. Lady Meadows assured him, that he had surprised her very agreeably; and, again embracing Henrietta, told her, that her good friend, the countess of —, had been very lavish in her praise, and had acquainted her with several circumstances of her conduct, which had raised her highly in her opinion.

‘I suppose you will not be very much grieved (added the old lady, smiling) to hear that your former lover lord B— is married to the citizen's daughter.’

"No, indeed, madam," replied Henrietta, "they seemed to be formed for each other."

"They are not very happy, I hear," said lady Meadows; who, having fallen upon the article of domestic news, related a great number of anecdotes concerning her acquaintance, some of which Henrietta had often,heard before. The old lady's fondness for talking at length gave way to her curiosity to hear every thing that had happened to her niece during their separation.

Henrietta gratified it with discretion, suppressing whatever might tend to revive disagreeable remembrances. She was now put into possession of her former apartment, and had an opportunity that night to congratulate her old friend Mrs. White (who assisted her to undress) upon her being reinstated in the favour of her lady.

CHAP. XII.

Which concludes the history.

THE next day Mr. Courteney informed lady Meadows, that Mr. Bale intended to wait on her, and hinted that he had a match to propose for Henrietta, which he hoped she would approve.

Lady Meadows, who had already taken her resolution with regard to both brother and sister, told him, that she was very desirous of seeing her niece settled; and that she was determined never to oppose her inclinations, being convinced that her virtue and prudence were to be entirely depended upon.

Mr. Bale came according to his appointment; and, being soon after left alone with lady Meadows, he acquainted her with the whole affair between the marquis of — and Henrietta, as he had received it from Mr. Courteney; and, observing that the old lady was dazzled with the prospect of her niece becoming a dutchess, added, that the want of a suitable fortune should not hinder the advancement of Henrietta: ‘for whatever you design for her, madam (said he) I will double; so great is my regard for her, and admiration of her virtues.’

Lady Meadows with reason thought this a very generous proposal. She complimented him upon it; and, stepping to her cabinet, took out a box that contained her will, and another deed which had been drawn up, while Mr. Courteney was in the country with the duke of —, but were not yet executed. She put these papers into Mr. Bale's hands, and desired him to read them, saying, ‘you will there see, sir, what I intend to do for my nephew and his sister.’

Mr. Bale opened the first, which was the will. He found she had constituted Mr. Courteney her heir, leaving him her whole estate, charging it only with the sum of five thousand pounds, to be paid his sister on the day of her marriage. The other paper contained a settlement of three hundred pounds a year upon Mr. Courteney during her life.

Mr. Bale, who knew the young gentleman's sentiments, proposed to lady Meadows to send for him, and acquaint him with her intentions. To this she readily agreed. Mr. Courteney turned pale when he heard the moderate sum designed for his sister; and, after expressing his gratitude to lady Meadows for the favour she shewed him, in terms the most respectful and affectionate, he earnestly conjured her to let Henrietta be at least an equal sharer with him in her kindness. He urged, as a motive to her to comply, the very advantageous match that was proposed to his sister. He expatiated on the marquis's tender and faithful passion for her; and touched with great delicacy upon the sentiments Henrietta could not avoid entertaining for a young nobleman, who had loved her with honour, even when ignorant of her birth, and when she was under very humiliating circumstances.

Lady Meadows interrupted him with the most flattering praises of his disinterestedness; but declared that her resolution was unalterable. "Your sister will have ten thousand pounds," said she; ‘this is no despicable fortune: and since there is so much love on the side of the marquis, there is no doubt but it will be thought sufficient.’

Mr. Bale explained the old lady's meaning, by telling him what he proposed to do for miss Courteney, and preventing the young gentleman's acknowledgments: ‘You have sufficiently shewn your regard for your sister (said he) and I am of opinion we ought not to press lady Meadows any more on this subject; she has acted nobly by you both.’

The lady was extremely flattered by the praise Mr. Bale gave her; and, to prevent any more solicitations from her nephew, she signed the papers immediately, which Mr. Bale, at her request, witnessed.

Mr. Courteney said every thing that gratitude and politeness could suggest, upon her presenting him the settlement; yet there was an air of concern upon his countenance, which Mr. Bale observing, took an opportunity to desire him, in a whisper, to meet him at a coffee-house (which he named to him) that evening, having something to say to him, which he hoped would make all things easy.

Mr. Courteney promised to attend him. He then begged lady Meadows not to let Henrietta know what had passed with regard to the marquis. ‘At present (said he) she considers this marriage as impossible to be effected, and so I would have her consider it, till I am sure that the duke will make no objection to the fortune that is designed her.’ Lady Meadows approved of his caution; and Mr. Bale was desired to visit her in her own apartment, and acquaint her with the dispositions made by her aunt.

Henrietta expressed the highest satisfaction at what had been done for her beloved brother, and, with the greatest sweetness, acknowledged her obligations to her aunt for the provision she had made for her: but when Mr. Bale acquainted her with the addition he designed to make to the fortune her aunt would give her, tears of tenderness and gratitude overspread her face, and she could utter no more, than, ‘O! sir, how generous— how kind is this— how shall I repay such unexampled goodness—’

Mr. Bale interrupted her soft exclamations, to lead her down stairs to her aunt, to whom she paid her acknowledgments with inimitable grace, and congratulated her brother with so sincere a joy, that he, who knew how much she was likely to lose by his good fortune, was moved almost to tears.

Mr. Bale a short time afterwards took his leave, and went to the coffee-house, where he had appointed Mr. Courteney to meet him. He was soon followed by the young gentleman, whose mind was under great agitations on his sister's account.

"One would hardly imagine," said Mr. Bale to him, smiling, ‘that you have just been declared heir to a good estate, you look like one disappointed and unhappy.’

"I am indeed disappointed, sir," replied Mr. Courteney; ‘I had laid a plan to make my sister and my friend happy: but my aunt's partiality has broke all my measures for the present.’

"Then you intend," said Mr. Bale, who had taken particular notice of his last words, ‘to make some addition to your sister's fortune, when the estate comes into your hands?’

‘Certainly, sir (replied Mr. Courteney) I should but ill deserve it, if I did not.’

‘It must be confessed (resumed Mr. Bale) that you are a very good brother.’

‘All that I can do for my sister, sir (said he) will be but bare justice; but your generosity t• her can never be enough admired.’

"No more of that," interrupted Mr. Bale. ‘I love your sister: she is a worthy young woman; I am grieved to think so noble a match for her, should meet with any obstruction for the want of a fortune. What do you think the duke will expect?’

"The lady he has proposed to his son, sir," said Mr. Courteney, ‘has twenty thousand pounds; and it would have been my pride and happiness to have prevailed with my aunt to make my sister's fortune equal to that.’

"Is it possible!" cried Mr. Bale, surprised. ‘Why fifteen thousand pounds is at least one third of your aunt's fortune?’

"My sister," said Mr. Courteney, ‘has a right to expect it. The whole would have been her's but for some unlucky accidents, and the strange partiality of lady Meadows for me. All that I can now do is, to let the marquis know, that my sister will have ten thousand pounds paid on the day of her marriage, and ten thousand more on the death of her aunt. The duke loves money; and I greatly doubt whether all his son's solicitations will make him relish this reversionary ten thousand pounds.’

"We will not put it to the hazard," interrupted Mr. Bale, ‘since you are determined to act thus generously by your sister, I will lay down the money myself, and all the security I require, is your bond for the re-payment of it, when your aunt's estate comes into your possession.’

Mr. Courteney was so overwhelmed with surprise, joy, and gratitude, for this unexpected, noble offer, that, during some moments, he was unable to utter a word. But this silence, accompanied with looks the most expressive that can be imagined, was more eloquent than any language could be. Recovering himself at last, he was beginning to pay the warmest acknowledgments; but Mr. Bale would not suffer him to proceed.

‘I am impatient (said he) for the conclusion of this affair. Write to your friend immediately, and let him know that your sister's guardian will treat with the duke his father, whenever he pleases.’

Mr. Courteney, at his reiterated request, took leave of him, and went home, in order to communicate this joyful news to his friend. Hearing that lady Meadows and his sister were engaged in company, he went to his own apartment, and wrote a short letter to the marquis, in which he acquainted him, that his sister being restored to the favour of her aunt, he had it now in his power to assure him, that if he continued in the same sentiments towards her, and could prevail with his grace to authorise them by his consent, he was impowered by her aunt and her guardian, to declare that her fortune would be twenty thousand pounds.

Having sealed and dispatched this letter to the post, he joined the company below stairs, with looks so full of satisfaction, and a behaviour animated with such extraordinary gaiety, that lady Meadows was more than ever delighted with him, concluding that the noble provision she had made for him, was the source of his joy; but Henrietta, who knew her brother better, and who besides saw something particular in those looks, which he from time to time gave her, felt strange flutterings in her gentle bosom: hopes checked as soon as formed; wishes suppressed as they rose. In these perturbations, she passed that night and the three following days.

Mean time the marquis, having received Mr. Courteney's letter, was so surprised at this sudden change in the fortune of Henrietta, that he read it over several times before he could persuade himself what he saw was real. His first emotions were all transport: every obstacle to his marriage was now removed; and he might solicit his father's consent, with a certainty almost of not being denied. Yet a sentiment of delicacy and tenderness made him regret, that it was not in his power to convince Henrietta of the disinterestedness of his love, and for some moments rendered him insensible of his present happiness.

The duke came into his chamber, while he was reading the letter the twentieth time, and so intently, that he did not perceive his entrance. When suddenly raising his eyes, and seeing his father, who, suspecting that this letter, which he seemed to read with so much emotion, came from his mistress, was looking earnestly on him.

‘O! my lord (cried he) there is nothing wanting to make me perfectly happy, but your consent to my marriage with miss Courteney. See, my lord, what her brother writes: her brother, who till now has so obstinately opposed my passion!’

The duke took the letter out of his hands, and having read it, returned it to him again without speaking a word, and walked to the other end of the room. The marquis, who saw nothing unfavourable in his looks, followed him, and, throwing himself at his feet, conjured him not to oppose his happiness any longer. The duke desired time to consider; but his son would not give over his solicitations, till he had obtained leave of him to visit miss Courteney, and to declare that his addresses had the sanction of his consent.

The happy marquis gave orders instantly for his post-chaise to be got ready, which his father at first did not oppose; but, after reflecting a little,

‘Can you not rein in your impatience for a few days?’ said he to him; ‘I intend to be in town next week: I shall then have an opportunity of seeing the young lady (and, since you are so obstinately bent upon the match) of talking to her aunt and her guardian.’

The marquis would not disoblige his father, by making any objections to this little delay, grievous as it was to him; but retired to write to Mr. Courteney, whom he acquainted with the duke's intentions, and, anticipating the tender name of brother, poured out his whole heart in the warmest expressions of love, friendship, joy, and every soft emotion with which he was agitated.

Mr. Courteney having communicated this letter to Mr. Bale, he agreed that it was necessary to make lady Meadows acquainted with the steps they had taken in the affair. She entered with a good grace into the generous designs of her nephew in favour of his sister.

"If I had done more for her," said she to him, smiling, ‘you would not have had an opportunity of doing so much.’ Mr. Courteney kissed her hand with a tender and respectful air.

"Go," said she, with a look that shewed she was highly pleased; ‘go, and tell your sister this good news; and tell her also that I am impatient to embrace and congratulate her.’

Mr. Courteney willingly obeyed her. He went to Henrietta's apartment, and, seeing her sitting pensive and melancholy, he began to rally her upon her tenderness for the marquis. She bore it with great sweetness, but not without some surprise; for her brother was used to be very delicate and reserved upon that subject. By degrees he assumed a more serious tone; and at length gave her to understand, that the marquis was now permitted by his father to pay his addresses to her.

Henrietta blushed and trembled from the moment her brother began to speak to her in a serious manner. Her emotions increased as he proceeded; yet she laboured to conceal them, till Mr. Courteney, explaining to her what Mr. Bale had done for her, which necessarily included his own generous gift, that innate delicacy, which had forced her joy to be silent, suffered her gratitude to shew itself in the most lively expressions. Lady Meadows came into the room, and gave a seasonable interruption to these tender effusions of her heart, which Mr. Courteney had listened to with a kind of painful pleasure. She embraced her niece, and congratulated her on her happy fortune.

Miss Courteney, who had now reason to expect a visit from the marquis, was not much surprised a few days afterwards to see his equipage at the door. After a few moments conversation with Mr. Courteney, he was introduced to lady Meadows, who received him with great respect. Henrietta blushed a little when he appeared, but recovered herself, and received the tender and respectful compliment he made her with her usual grace.

A great deal of company coming in soon afterwards, he found means to engage her apart for a quarter of an hour. Their conversation was such as might be expected between persons of their sense and politeness, who loved each other with the utmost tenderness, and now for the first time saw themselves at liberty to declare their sentiments. Henrietta did not scruple to own to the man, who had so nobly merited her esteem, that her heart had received a most tender impression for him; and this soft acknowledgment completed her lover's felicity.

Mr. Courteney waited upon the duke the next morning, and had the pleasure to hear from his own mouth, that he was entirely satisfied with his son's proceedings. His grace visited lady Meadows the same day; and was so charmed with Henrietta, that he scarce discovered less impatience than his son, for the conclusion of the marriage. Every thing being agreed on between the duke and Mr. Bale, with regard to settlements, the writings were drawn up with all convenient speed, and a day appointed for the marriage.

Lady Meadows, though a Roman catholic, allowed the ceremony to be performed at her house: after which, the new-married pair, with the old lady, the duke, Mr. Bale, and Mr. Courteney, set out for his grace's country seat.

The charming marchioness did not make her first public appearance in town till late in the ensuing winter; when her beauty, her sufferings, her virtue, and her good fortune, were for a long time the subjects of conversation.

Mr. Courteney, happy in the conscious integrity of his heart, happy in the ardent affection of his sister and the marquis, and the esteem of all who knew him, was, by the death of lady Meadows, which happened a few months after his sister's marriage, enabled to discharge his obligations to Mr. Bale. His generosity was not long unrewarded: an opulent heiress fell desperately in love with him; she was related to the duke, who interested himself so warmly in the affair, that the marriage was soon concluded.

Lord B—, as has been observed already, lived very unhappy with his plebeian lady. The sight of the charming Henrietta renewed his passion. Tortured with remorse, disappointment, and despair, he had recourse to the bottle, and fell an early sacrifice to intemperance.

Miss Woodby, who had always a violent passion for a red-coat, listened to the sighs of a young cadet, and married him in a week after their first acquaintance. Her excuse for this precipitancy was, that the lovely youth would certainly have stabbed himself, if she had delayed his happiness any longer. With part of her fortune he bought a commission, and spent the rest in a few months. After which, he went abroad with his regiment, leaving her, in an obscure retirement, to bewail his absence, and sooth her love-sick heart, with hopes that he would return more passionate than ever, and lay all his laurels at her feet.

Miss Belmour, forsaken by her lover, became a proselyte to the Roman catholic religion, and retired to a convent, where the nuns wrought her up to such a degree of enthusiasm, that she settled her whole fortune upon the community, and took the veil; but soon afterwards, repenting of this rash step, she died of grief, remorse, and disappointment.

Mrs. Willis was generously rewarded by the marchioness, for the many kind and faithful services she had received from her: and Mr. Bale, who highly esteemed her for her behaviour to his beauteous ward, settled her husband in such an advantageous way, that in a few years he made a considerable fortune.

The younger Mr. Bale found, in the incessant clamours of a jealous wife, a sufficient punishment for his treacherous designs on Henrietta; and it was not without great difficulty, that he was restored to his father's favour.

Every branch of the Courteney family made frequent advances towards a reconciliation with the marchioness and her brother: but generous as they were, they had too just a sense of the indignities they had suffered from them, to admit of it; and, in this steady resentment, they had, as it usually happens with successful persons, the world on their side.

THE END.

Information about this book

Title statement

Henrietta: By the author of The female Quixote. In two volumes. ... [pt.2]

Lennox, Charlotte, ca. 1729-1804.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4564

ID [isbn10]

1106015630

ID [isbn13]

9781106015631

ID [TCP]

K061206.002

ID [BIBNO]

CW3315466223

ID [ECLL]

0983400102

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Source

— Henrietta: By the author of The female Quixote. In two volumes. ..., Lennox, Charlotte, ca. 1729-1804.. 2v. ; 12⁰. London :: printed for A. Millar,. 1758.. [Author of The female Quixote = Charlotte Lennox.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT72179.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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