CHAP. II.

The commencement of a violent friendship between two young ladies, which has the usual consequences, a communication of secrets, by which the reader is let into part of Henrietta’s story.

A profound silence now prevailed among the company in the coach; the eyes of all were fastened upon the fair stranger, who appeared wholly insensible of the scrutinizing looks of her fellow-travellers. Something within herself seemed to engross all her thoughts, and although by her eyes being constantly turned towards the windows of the coach, it might be imagined the passing objects drew her attention, yet their fixed looks too plainly indicated that they were beheld without observation. Her person, though full of charms, and the easy gracefulness of her air, impressed less respect for her on the minds of the women, than the elegance of her morning-dress, which they were now at leisure to consider. Her gown was a white sprig’d muslin, extremely fine, through which shone a rich blue Mantua silk petticoat: her cap, handkerchief, and ruffles were trimmed with fine Brussels lace: her apron had a broad border round it of Dresden work; and a white lutestring hat shaded her charming face, which she was solicitous to conceal from view.

The melancholy with which she seemed oppressed, conciliated to her the good-will of her female fellow-travellers, though from very different sentiments. The haughty lady, who had refused to let her have a place in the coach, found her envy and ill-nature insensibly subside, by the consideration that this stranger was probably more unhappy than herself.

The lusty matron, pleased that by insisting upon receiving her, she had conferred an obligation on one who appeared to be of a rank above her own, enjoyed her present superiority, and pitied her from the overflowings of gratified pride.

The young lady in the riding-habit, whose vanity had been a little mortified at seeing herself associated in a journey with persons whom she conceived to be very unfit company for her, thought herself very happy in the acquisition of so genteel a fellow-traveller; and as she had not deign’d to open her mouth before, from an opinion of the meanness of her company, she now made herself amends for her silence, by addressing a profusion of civil speeches to the fair stranger, who replied to every thing she said with extreme politeness, but with an air that showed her heart was not at ease.

The passengers being set down at different places, miss Courteney, for that was the name of our fair adventurer, remained alone with the young lady in the coach. This circumstance seemed to rouze her from a deep revery, in which she had been wholly absorbed during the last half hour; and looking earnestly at her companion, “Ah! madam,” said she, in a most affecting accent, “and when am I to lose you?” “I shall leave you in a few minutes,” said the lady; “for I am going no farther than Hammersmith.”1 “Lord bless me!” said miss Courteney, lifting up her fine eyes swimming in tears, “What shall I do? what will become of me?”

This exclamation gave great surprize to the other lady, who from several circumstances had conceived that there was some mystery in her case. “You seem uneasy,” said she to miss Courteney, “pray let me know if it is in my power to serve you.”

This kind request had such an effect on the tender heart of miss Courteney, that she burst into tears, and for a few moments was unable to answer; when the lady pressing her to speak freely, “I am an unhappy creature, madam,” said she, sighing; “and am flying from the only person in the world upon whom I have any dependence. I will make no scruple to trust you with my secret. Did you ever hear of lady Meadows,” pursued she, “the widow of Sir John Meadows?”

“I know a lady who is acquainted with her,” said the other, “she is a woman of fashion and fortune.”

“Lady Meadows is my relation,” resumed miss Courteney; “she took me, a poor helpless orphan, under her protection, and during some time treated me with the tenderness of a mother. Within these few weeks I have unhappily lost her favour, not by any fault of mine, I assure you, for I have always loved and reverenced her. Nothing should have obliged me to take this step, which has no doubt an appearance of ingratitude, but the fear of being forced to marry a man I hate.”

“O heavens! my dear creature,” exclaimed the lady in an affected tone, “What do you tell me! were you upon the point of being forced to a detested match?” “Yes, madam,” replied miss Courteney; “and to this hard lot was I doomed by her to whom I owe all my past happiness, and from whom I expected all the future.”

“You have obliged me excessively by this unreserved confidence,” interrupted the lady; “and you shall find me not unworthy of it. From this moment I swear to you an inviolable attachment. Sure there is nothing so transporting as friendship and mutual confidence! You won my heart the moment I saw you. I have formed a hundred violent friendships, but one accident or other always dissolved them in a short time. There are very few persons that are capable of a violent friendship; at least I never could find one that answered my ideas of that sort of engagement. Have not you been often disappointed? tell me, my dear: I dare say you have. Your sentiments, I believe, are as delicate as mine upon this head. I am charmed, I am ravished with this meeting! Who would have imagined that by chance, and in a stage-coach, I should have found what I have so earnestly sought for these three months, a person with whom I could contract a violent friendship, such as minds like ours are only capable of feeling.”

“I am extremely obliged to you, madam, for your good opinion,” said miss Courteney; “I hope I shall never be so unfortunate as to forfeit it; indeed I have reason to think that in my present distressed situation, a friend is a blessing sent from heaven.”

“Well! but my dear Clelia,” said this flighty lady, “you have not told me all your story—I call you Clelia, because you know it is so like common acquaintance to address one another by the title of Miss such a one—Romantick names give a spirit to the correspondence between such friends as you and I are; but perhaps you may like another name better than Clelia; though I think that is a mighty pretty one, so soft and gliding, Clelia, Clelia—tell me do you like it, my dear?”

“Call me what you please,” said miss Courteney, smiling a little at the singularity of her new friend; “but my name is Courteney.”

“Courteney is a very pretty sirname,” said the lady; “I hope it is not disgraced with any odious vulgar christian name, such as Molly, or Betty, or the like.”

“I was christened Henrietta, after my mother,” said miss Courteney. “Henrietta is well enough”—returned the other; “but positively, my dear, you must assume the name of Clelia when you write to me; for we must correspond every hour—Oh! what a ravishing pleasure it is to indulge the overflowings of one’s heart upon paper! Remember to call me Celinda in your letters; and in all our private conversations, we shall have a thousand secrets to communicate to each other. But I am impatient to know all your story; it must needs be very romantick and pretty.”

“Alas!” said the charming Henrietta, “this is no time to talk of my misfortunes; we are entered into Hammersmith, and there you say you must leave me: give me your advice, dear madam, tell me in what manner I must dispose of myself.”

“Dear madam,” repeated the lady—“is that the style then you resolve to use; have you forgot that we have contracted a violent friendship, and that I am your Celinda, and you my Clelia?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Henrietta; “I did not think of that name: well then, dear Celinda, what would you advise me to do? I am going to London, there to conceal myself from the search that lady Meadows will doubtless make for me when she hears I have left her house: all my hope of a reconciliation with her is through the interposition of a friend. I have a brother, who has been abroad several years, and whom I every day expect to hear is arrived; but I dare not show myself to any of lady Meadows’s acquaintance, lest I should be hurried back, and sacrificed to what she calls my interest. I know so little of the town, that I am afraid I may take up my residence in an improper house, among people where my honour, or at least my reputation, may be in danger. Direct me, dear madam—My dear Celinda, I would say, direct me what to do in this dreadful dilemma.” Here she paused, anxiously expecting the answer of her new friend, which will be found in the following chapter.