Memoirs of Emma Courtney Part 6

She began to grow eloquent on this, apparently, exhaustless theme, nor did she cease her panegyric till we came in view of Mrs Harley's mansion.

'You will love the mother as well as the son,' continued this agreeable prattler, 'when you come to know her; she is very good and very sensible.'

Drawing near the house, she tripped from me, to enquire if its mistress had yet risen.

A small white tenement, half obscured in shrubbery, on a verdant lawn, of dimensions equally modest, situated on the side of a hill, and commanding an extensive and variegated prospect, was too interesting and picturesque an object, not to engage for some moments my attention.

The image of Augustus, also, which my lively companion had pourtrayed with more than her usual vivacity, played in my fancy--my heart paid involuntary homage to virtue, and I entered the mansion of Mrs Harley with a swelling emotion, made up of complicated feelings--half respectful, half tender--sentiments, too mingled to be distinctly traced. I was introduced into a room that overlooked a pleasant garden, and which the servant called a library. It was hung with green paper, the carpet the same colour, green venetian blinds to the windows, a sopha and chairs covered with white dimity; some drawings and engravings hung on the walls, arranged with exact symmetry; on one side of the room stood a grand piano-forte, opposite to which, was a handsome book-case, filled with books, elegantly bound; in the middle of the apartment was placed a table, covered with a green cloth, on which was a reading desk, some books and pamphlets, with implements for writing and drawing.

Nothing seemed costly, yet neatness, order, and taste, appeared through the whole apartment, bespeaking the elegant and cultivated mind of the owner.

After amusing myself for a short time, in this charming retirement, I was summoned by Ann to the breakfast room, where Mrs Harley awaited me. I was interested, at the first glance, in favour of this amiable woman--she appeared to be near fifty, her person agreeable, her countenance animated, her address engaging, and her manners polished.

Mutually pleased with each other, the hours pa.s.sed rapidly; and, till reminded by a significant look from my little friend, I was unconscious, that I had made my visit of an unreasonable length.

Mrs Harley spoke much of her son, he was the darling and the pride of her heart; she lamented the distance that separated them, and wished, that her health, and his tenderness, would allow of her residence with him in London. When conversing on this favourite topic, a glow enlivened her countenance, and her eyes sparkled with a humid brightness. I was affected by her maternal love--tender remembrances, and painful comparisons, crouded into my mind--a tear fell, that would not be twinkled away--she observed it, and seemed to feel its meaning; she held out her hand to me, I took it and pressed it to my lips. At parting, she entreated me speedily to renew my visit, to come often without ceremony--I should cheer her solitude--my sympathy, for she perceived I had a feeling heart, would help to console her in the absence of her Augustus.

CHAPTER XVII

On our way home, Ann was in high spirits, congratulating herself upon her sagacity.

'Mrs Harley,' (said she, archly leering in my face) 'will console you for the departure of Mr Francis.'

I smiled without replying. At dinner our visit of the morning was canva.s.sed (Ann had wished me to conceal it, but this I positively refused). Mr Morton spoke of Mrs Harley and her son with great respect, Mrs Morton with a sarcastic sneer, accompanied with a reprimand to her daughter, for the improper liberty she had taken.

I quitted the table, immediately after the desert, to stifle my disgust, and, taking a book, wandered into the pleasure grounds, but incapable of fixing my attention, I presently shut my book, and, sauntering slowly on, indulged in a reverie. My melancholy reflections again returned--How could I remain in a house, where I was every day marked out for insult by its mistress--and where was I to dispose of myself? My fortune was insufficient to allow of my boarding in a respectable family. Mrs Harley came across my mind--Amiable woman!--Would she, indeed, accept of my society, and allow me to soften her solitude!--But her income was little less limited than my own--it must not be thought of. I reflected on the inequalities of society, the source of every misery and of every vice, and on the peculiar disadvantages of my s.e.x. I sighed bitterly; and, clasping my hands together, exclaimed, unconsciously--

'Whither can I go--and where shall I find an asylum?'

'Allow me to propose one,' said a voice, in a soft accent, suddenly, behind me.

I started, turned, and beheld Mr Montague. After some expressions of sympathy for the distress which he had witnessed, apologies for his intrusion, and incoherent expressions of respect and regard, he somewhat abruptly offered his hand and heart to my acceptance, with the impetuosity which accompanied all his sentiments and actions; yet, he expressed himself with the air of a man who believes he is conferring an obligation.

I thanked him for his generous proposal--

But, as my heart spake not in his favour--'I must be allowed to decline it.'

'That heart,' said he, rudely, 'is already bestowed upon another.'

'Certainly not, Mr Montague; if it were, I would frankly tell you.'

He p.r.o.nounced the name of Mr Francis--

'Mr Francis is a man for whom I feel a sincere respect and veneration--a man whom I should be proud to call my friend; but a thought beyond that, I dare venture to say, has never occurred to either of us.'

He knew not how to conceive--that a woman in my situation, unprepossessed, could reject so advantageous an establishment!

This, I told him, was indelicate, both to me and to himself. Were my situation yet more desolate, I would not marry any man, merely for an _establishment_, for whom I did not feel an affection.

Would I please to describe to him the model of perfection which I should require in a husband?

It was unnecessary; as I saw no probability of the portrait bearing any resemblance to himself.

He reddened, and turned pale, alternately; bit his lips, and muttered to himself.--'d.a.m.ned romantic affectation!'

I a.s.sumed a firmer tone--methought he insulted me.--'I beg you will leave me, Sir--I chuse to be alone--By what right do you intrude upon my retirements?'

My determined accent abashed him:--he tried, but with an ill grace, to be humble; and entreated me to take time for consideration.

'There is no need of it. It is a principle with me, not to inflict a moment's suspence on any human being, when my own mind is decided.'

'Then you absolutely refuse me, and prefer the being exposed to the mean and envious insults of the vulgar mistress of this mansion!'

'Of the two evils, I consider it as the least, because it involves no permanent obligation.'

His countenance was convulsed with pa.s.sion. His love, he told me, was converted into vengeance by my scorn: he was not to be contemned with impunity; and he warned me to beware.

I smiled, I believe, a little too contemptuously. 'You love me not, Sir; I am glad, for your own sake, that you never loved me.'

'My hatred may be more terrible!'

'You cannot intimidate me--I am little accustomed to fear.'

I turned from him somewhat disdainfully: but, instantly recollecting myself, I stepped back, and apologized for the harsh manner into which I had been betrayed by his abrupt address, vehement expostulation, and the previous irritated state of my mind.

'I acknowledge,' said I, 'the disinterestedness of your proposal, and the _distinction_ which it implies. Will you allow my own wounded feelings to be an excuse for the too little consideration with which I have treated _your's_? Can you forgive me?' added I, in a conciliating tone, holding out my hand.

The strong emotions, which rapidly succeeded each other in his mind, were painted in his countenance. After a moment's hesitation, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the hand I offered him, pressed it to his lips, and, murmuring a few incoherent words, burst into tears. My spirits were already depressed--affected by these marks of his sensibility, and still more distressed by the recollection of the pain I had occasioned him by my inconsiderate behaviour, I wept with him for some minutes in silence.

'Let us no more,' resumed I, making an effort to recover myself, 'renew these impressions. I thank you sincerely for the sympathy you have manifested for my situation. I am sensible that I have yielded to weak and wayward feelings.--I have youth, health, and activity--I ought not--neither do I despair.--The mortifications I have experienced, since my residence here, will afford me a useful lesson for the future--they have already taught me, what I before merely conjectured, _the value of independence_!'

'Why, then,' interrupted he with quickness, 'do you reject an opportunity of placing yourself out of the reach of insult?'

'Stop, my good friend,' replied I, smilingly looking in his face; 'there is a possibility of exchanging evils. You are yet too young, and too unstable, maturely to have weighed the importance of the scheme you propose. Remember, likewise, that you are, yourself, in a great measure, dependent on the will of your father; and that much reflection is requisite before we fetter ourselves with engagements, that, once entered into, are not easily dissolved.'

'You allow me, then, to hope!'

'Indeed I meant not to imply any such thing. I wish to soften what I have already expressed--but, there are a variety of reasons which oblige me to a.s.sure you, that I see no probability of changing my sentiments on the subject.'

'Why, then, this cruel ostentation? I would either love or hate, bless or curse you.'

'You shall do neither, if I can prevent it. If my esteem is of any value to you, you must learn to respect both me and yourself.'

'Esteem!--Is that to be my frigid reward!'

'If _mine_ be worthless, propose to yourself _your own_ as a recompense.'

'I have already forfeited it, by seeking to move a heart, that triumphs in its cold inflexibility.'