Mother. I have a very serious matter to talk with you upon, Nancy, when you are disposed to attend to matters within ourselves, and not let matters without ourselves wholly engross you.
A good selve-ish speech!--But I thought that friendship, grat.i.tude, and humanity, were matters that ought to be deemed of the most intimate concern to us. But not to dwell upon words.
Daughter. I am now disposed to attend to every thing my mamma is disposed to say to me.
M. Why then, child--why then, my dear--[and the good lady"s face looked so plump, so smooth, and so shining!]--I see you are all attention, Nancy!--But don"t be surprised!--don"t be uneasy!--But I have--I have-- Where is it?--[and yet it lay next her heart, never another near it--so no difficulty to have found it]--I have a letter, my dear!--[And out from her bosom it came: but she still held it in her hand]--I have a letter, child.--It is--it is--it is from--from a gentleman, I a.s.sure you!-- [lifting up her head, and smiling.]
There is no delight to a daughter, thought I, in such surprises as seem to be collecting. I will deprive my mother of the satisfaction of making a gradual discovery.
D. From Mr. Antony Harlowe, I suppose, Madam?
M. [Lips drawn closer: eye raised] Why, my dear!--I cannot but own-- But how, I wonder, could you think of Mr. Anthony Harlowe?
D. How, Madam, could I think of any body else?
M. How could you think of any body else?--[angry, and drawing back her face]. But do you know the subject, Nancy?
D. You have told it, Madam, by your manner of breaking it to me. But, indeed, I question not that he had two motives in his visits--both equally agreeable to me; for all that family love me dearly.
M. No love lost, if so, between you and them. But this [rising] is what I get--so like your papa!--I never could open my heart to him!
D. Dear Madam, excuse me. Be so good as to open your heart to me.-- I don"t love the Harlowes--but pray excuse me.
M. You have put me quite out with your forward temper! [angrily sitting down again.]
D. I will be all patience and attention. May I be allowed to read his letter?
M. I wanted to advise with you upon it.--But you are such a strange creature!--you are always for answering one before one speaks!
D. You"ll be so good as to forgive me, Madam.--But I thought every body (he among the rest) knew that you had always declared against a second marriage.
M. And so I have. But then it was in the mind I was in. Things may offer----
I stared.
M. Nay, don"t be surprised!--I don"t intend--I don"t intend--
D. Not, perhaps, in the mind you are in, Madam.
M. Pert creature! [rising again]----We shall quarrel, I see!--There"s no----
D. Once more, dear Madam, I beg your excuse. I will attend in silence.
--Pray, Madam, sit down again--pray do [she sat down.]--May I see the letter?
No; there are some things in it you won"t like.--Your temper is known, I find, to be unhappy. But nothing bad against you; intimations, on the contrary, that you shall be the better for him, if you oblige him.
Not a living soul but the Harlowes, I said, thought me ill-tempered: and I was contented that they should, who could do as they had done by the most universally acknowledged sweetness in the world.
Here we broke out a little; but at last she read me some of the pa.s.sages in the letter. But not the most mightily ridiculous: yet I could hardly keep my countenance neither, especially when she came to that pa.s.sage which mentions his sound health; and at which she stopped; she best knew why--But soon resuming:
M. Well now, Nancy, tell me what you think of it.
D. Nay, pray, Madam, tell me what you think of it.
M. I expect to be answered by an answer; not by a question! You don"t use to be so shy to speak your mind.
D. Not when my mamma commands me to do so.
M. Then speak it now.
D. Without hearing the whole of the letter?
M. Speak to what you have heard.
D. Why then, Madam----you won"t be my mamma HOWE, if you give way to it.
M. I am surprised at your a.s.surance, Nancy!
D. I mean, Madam, you will then be my mamma Harlowe.
M. O dear heart!--But I am not a fool.
And her colour went and came.
D. Dear Madam, [but, indeed, I don"t love a Harlowe--that"s what I mean,] I am your child, and must be your child, do what you will.
M. A very pert one, I am sure, as ever mother bore! And you must be my child, do what I will!--as much as to say, you would not, if you could help it, if I--
D. How could I have such a thought!--It would be forward, indeed, if I had--when I don"t know what your mind is as to the proposal:--when the proposal is so very advantageous a one too.
M. [Looking a little less discomposed] why, indeed, ten thousand pounds----
D. And to be sure of outliving him, Madam!
M. Sure!--n.o.body can be sure--but it is very likely that----
D. Not at all, Madam. You was going to read something (but stopped) about his const.i.tution: his sobriety is well known--Why, Madam, these gentlemen who have used the sea, and been in different climates, and come home to relax from cares in a temperate one, and are sober--are the likeliest to live long of any men in the world. Don"t you see that his very skin is a fortification of buff?
M. Strange creature!
D. G.o.d forbid, that any body I love and honour should marry a man in hopes to bury him--but suppose, Madam, at your time of life----
M. My time of life?--Dear heart!--What is my time of life, pray?
D. Not old, Madam; and that you are not, may be your danger!
As I hope to live (my dear) my mother smiled, and looked not displeased with me.