Containing several mysterious circumstances.
Henrietta had been about a fortnight in the house of Mrs. Willis, whose good sense and polite behaviour, had entirely won her esteem, when, on a sudden, she became reserved and thoughtful, and often failed in those little attentions which mark respect, and an extreme willingness to oblige. She, who had avoided the least appearance of curiosity to know more of her affairs than what she pleased to disclose, now asked questions with an inquisitive air, and seemed to seek for occasions of collecting a fuller knowledge of her from her conversation.
Henrietta had insisted upon her being made acquainted with her true name and circumstances, from the time that Mr. Damer had acknowledged to her aunt that she was under his care, which had then produced no other alteration in Mrs. Willis than rather an increase of respect towards her, which she conceived due to her birth.
The young lady, whose extreme sensibility was not the least of her misfortunes, observed her increasing coldness, and suffered great uneasiness. She had willingly indulged a tenderness and esteem for her; and was concerned to find from her altered behaviour, that either she had failed in her endeavours to acquire the friendship of Mrs. Willis, or that the woman whom she had conceived so good an opinion of, was in reality not deserving of hers.
However, she was determined not to let Mr. Damer perceive that she was dissatisfied with her behaviour; and she continued to live with her in the same easy manner as formerly, notwithstanding the coldness and constraint with which she was now treated.
Mr. Damer scarce ever failed to call and see her once a day; but one day he returned about an hour after he had been with her, and told her he had just received letters from his father, in which he acquainted him that Mrs. Willis would in a few days have several foreign merchants in her house, whom he had recommended to lodge with her; and that, his stay in Holland being protracted for some time longer, he thought it would not be proper for miss Courteney to reside with Mrs. Willis till his return, as her house would be full of men.
“My father,” added Mr. Damer, “desires me to ask you, miss, whether you have any objection to go into the country for a few weeks. He has a distant relation, a widow, who lives at Hampstead, with whom he says he will be glad to find you at his return; he begs you will excuse his not writing to you, having the gout still in his hand, and desires me to assure you of his tenderest concern for your welfare.”
A week before, Henrietta would have thought it a misfortune to have left Mrs. Willis to go into any other lodging; but she was so piqued by her behaviour, that she heard this news without any uneasiness, and told Mr. Damer she would implicitly follow her guardian’s directions.
He said he would conduct her to his cousin’s himself; and took leave of her, after he had desired her to be ready for her little journey the next day.
Mrs. Willis came up to her apartment soon after Mr. Damer went away. “I hear I am soon to lose you, miss,” said she, entering. “Yes,” replied miss Courteney cooly, “such is my guardian’s pleasure; but,” added she smiling, “you will not miss me; you will have other company.” “Other company!” repeated Mrs. Willis.
“Mr. Damer tells me,” said miss Courteney “that your house will be full soon; some gentlemen recommended by his father will be here.”
“It is strange,” said Mrs. Willis, “that I should know nothing of it; have you had a letter from your guardian, miss?”
“No,” replied miss Courteney; “but his son has heard from him—But,” pursued she, after a little pause, “it is strange, as you say, that you should not know you are to have new lodgers.”
Mrs. Willis looked at her attentively, as she spoke these words, “May I ask you, miss,” said she, “the cause of your sudden removal?”
“I know of none,” replied miss Courteney; “but that, my guardian thinks it will not be proper for me to stay among so many gentlemen as will shortly be your lodgers.”
“I wish there had been a better reason than that,” said Mrs. Willis; “for I am very sure I am to have no lodgers recommended by the elder Mr. Damer, otherwise I should have known it.”
“Has not his son told you so?” asked miss Courteney, in great confusion of thought.
“He told me nothing,” replied Mrs. Willis, “but that you are to leave me to-morrow.”
“Lord bless me,” cried the young lady, in great emotion, “what can this mean!”
“Suffer me,” said Mrs. Willis, looking on her with tenderness and concern, “to ask you a few questions: when you know my motives, I am sure you will not think that it is an impertinent curiosity which makes me take this liberty, but my anxiety for you.”
“Dear madam,” interrupted miss Courteney, “ask me what you please: you alarm me excessively.”
“I would not alarm you,” said Mrs. Willis; “but I will own to you that I have fears, nay more, that I have had doubts; but I see I have been to blame with regard to the latter: has Mr. Damer shewn you his father’s letters, miss?”
“Shewn them to me!” repeated Henrietta, “no—but sure—dear Mrs. Willis explain yourself—I am ready to sink with the apprehensions you have raised in my mind.”
“Compose yourself, my dear,” said Mrs. Willis, drawing her chair nearer to her, and taking her hand tenderly. “I mean you well; be assured I do: and now I will tell you all that has been upon my mind for several days past. Never did I imagine that I should entertain unfavourable suspicions of the son of my benefactor; but indeed, my dear miss, I am afraid he has not acted ingenuously with you.”
That moment a loud knocking at the door interrupted Mrs. Willis. She started from her chair. “Who can this be?” said she in some surprise; “I will go and see.” She ran hastily out of the room; but returning again instantly, “Possibly,” said she, “it may be Mr. Damer: remember, miss, that it is my advice to you, not to leave my house, if he should desire you, at least till you have heard what I have to say.”
She uttered these words with extreme earnestness and concern, and went immediately down stairs, leaving Henrietta in an agony of doubt, anxiety, and astonishment.
Her surprise kept her motionless in her chair, till she was roused by the voice of a woman upon the stairs that led to her apartment, whom she heard say, with great haughtiness of accent, “No, there is no occasion for that ceremony; I shall go in without introduction, I assure you.”
She suddenly started from her chair, and was going towards the door, when she saw it flung open with some violence, and a lady of a very disagreeable figure but richly dressed, and in the utmost extremity of the fashion, appear at the entrance.
Miss Courteney, recovering a little from her surprise, looked at the lady, in order to recollect whether she had ever seen her before; but being wholly unacquainted with her features, and observing that she stood still and gazed at her without speaking, she concluded the visit could not be designed for her.
“I fancy, madam,” said she, approaching her, “you are mistaken; I am not the person you seek.”
“No, madam,” returned the lady with an emphasis, “I am not mistaken;” then throwing herself haughtily into a chair, “I shall not ask your leave,” said she, with a malignant smile, “to sit down in this apartment; I may take that liberty with what belongs to Mr. Damer—Do you know me pray, madam.”
“Not I, truly,” replied miss Courteney, indignation at this insolent treatment having banished her former terror and surprise, and seating herself, with a careless air, just opposite to her, “Pray let me know what is your business with me,” said she.
“Pert creature!” said the stranger affecting contempt, while her lips quivered with rage, and her whole frame seemed convulsed with the violence of her emotions: “What! you would have me understand you to be a woman of fortune, would you not?—Upon my word,” said she, looking round her, “this is a very handsome apartment. Your dressing-room forsooth! You have your forms, no doubt, and receive company in your dressing-room in a morning. A very genteel dishabille, too; and your face varnished over so nicely!—Who would not conclude that white and red to be natural?”
“You are come here to insult me, I find,” said Henrietta, her fine face glowing with indignation.—“I cannot imagine what cause I have given you for this strange rudeness. I never, as I can remember, ever saw you before; and insist upon your quitting my apartment. You can have no business with me, I am sure.”
“Indeed but I have, minx,” said the stranger, with the pale rage of a fury; “and my business is to turn you out of this apartment: my fortune shall not be wasted in supporting such wretches.”
“Your fortune!” cried miss Courteney, in astonishment: “What have I to do with you, or your fortune?—Who are you?”
This moment Mrs. Willis entered the room: “Excuse me, ladies,” said she; “I heard high words between you.”
“Ladies!” interrupted the stranger: “how dare you, woman, join me with such a creature?—What business have you to intrude?”
“Madam,” replied Mrs. Willis, “I came to inform this young lady, my boarder, who you are: she does not know you.—Miss, this is young Mr. Darner’s lady.”
“What!” cried Henrietta, in the utmost astonishment, “is Mr. Damer married?”
“Oh—you are surprised then,” said the lady, with a sneer: “disappointed too, perhaps.—You had the confidence, I suppose, to think he would have married you one of these days!—Tell me, you wicked thing, did he ever give you such hopes?—Oh I could tear his eyes out!” said she, rising, and walking about the room like one frantick, while the enormous length of her negligee swept the room, like the train of a tragedy-queen.—“A wretch, to use me thus! me, who has brought him such a fortune! but I’ll be revenged: he shall never have a quiet moment. I’ll make him know what it is to slight a woman of virtue.”
All this time Henrietta continued silent, rooted in her chair, and with difficulty restrained the anguish of her heart from rising to her eyes, lest this outrageous woman of virtue should exult in her distress, yet she saw that she was betrayed; that Mr. Damer had acted weakly, if not basely: her reputation was ruined, yet she would not stoop so low as to enter into any justification of herself to a woman who had treated her so cruelly, upon a bare suspicion. The pride of affronted virtue came to her aid, against that torrent of overwhelming grief, which had for some moments absorbed all her faculties: she rose from her chair, and approaching Mrs. Damer,
“The error you are in,” said she, “would have moved my compassion, had you treated me with less insolence. I scorn to undeceive you.—Go, learn from your husband who I am; and blush if you can, for the injurious language you have given a person as much your superior by birth, as in that virtue perhaps of which you boast, and which has not withheld you from such indecent transports of jealousy, as it would become a virtuous woman to suppress.”
The superiority with which she spoke, the dignity of her air and manner, struck her mean-souled adversary with such awe, that she continued silent for some moments, with her haggard looks fixed on her. Envy, at the view of so lovely a form, added new stings to her rage and jealousy. At length, she poured forth a torrent of reproaches, with such eagerness of malice, that her words were scarce intelligible.
“I am not used to scolding,” said miss Courteney, calmly, retiring towards her bedchamber, “and you, Mrs. Damer, seem to be an excellent scold.”
The lady, provoked at this appellation, employed the coarsest language imaginable to express her resentment of the injury; but miss Courteney took shelter in her bedchamber, the door of which she double-locked.
“Insolent trollop,” said Mrs. Damer, raising her voice that she might hear her, “call me scold! I scorn your words, you saucy, impudent, audacious hussy: I never could scold in my life,—no, you dirty puss:—I am a woman of breeding; I am none of your beggarly quality: I had forty thousand pounds to my portion, you proud paltry minx.—Scold! call me a scold—”
“Pray, madam, compose yourself,” said Mrs. Willis, “and do me the favour to walk down into my parlour.—Here is some mistake. I am pretty certain you have injured this young lady by your suspicions.”
“Young lady!” interrupted Mrs. Damer, “What makes her a lady?—A fine world it is, now-adays, when beggars are called ladies. I would fain know what fortune she has to put her upon a footing with ladies.”
“I know nothing of her fortune, madam,” said Mrs. Willis.
“Fortune! poor wretch!” said Mrs. Damer: “a few paultry hundreds.—Such ladies! Suppose her grandfather was an earl, has she a fortune? answer me that.”
“I don’t know, really,” replied Mrs. Willis. “Well then,” said Mrs. Damer, “why do you give her a title she has no right to? But why do I talk to you, vile wretch? you are my husband’s confident.”
This thought renewed all her rage, and she loaded Mrs. Willis with such shocking invectives, that the poor woman could not refrain from tears.
“Your husband’s father, madam,” said she, “has been a generous benefactor to me: I consider that, and will be patient under your abuse.”
The word abuse was such a charge upon this lady’s want of breeding, that she called Mrs. Willis a hundred saucy jades, for daring to say that she was capable of abusing any body; and having almost exhausted her spirits with the violence of her passions, and finding that Mrs. Willis sat silent, and took no farther notice of what she said, she flounced out of the room, declaring, that her father-in-law should know that she acted as procuress for his son, and that she should return to her rags and poverty again.
Mrs. Willis thought her behaviour dispensed with her from treating her with that respect, which she would have otherwise paid to Mr. Darner’s daughter-in-law, and therefore did not offer to wait on her down stairs, but rung the bell for somebody to attend her, and, locking the door after her, she tapped gently at miss Courteney’s chamber-door, telling her, that Mrs. Damer was gone.
“Who is this fury?” said the young lady, as she came out. “You have been treated very ill by her, Mrs. Willis, I am sorry for it.” “And I am sorry for what you have suffered, my dear miss,” replied Mrs. Willis; “but Mr. Damer is to blame for it all. I am now sure you are entirely innocent.”
“Innocent!” repeated miss Courteney, with a sigh—“How low am I fallen, when that could ever be doubted! But Mrs. Willis, you knew, it seems, that Mr. Damer was married, I am surprised you never mentioned his wife to me.”
“And are you not surprised, miss,” said Mrs. Willis, “that Mr. Damer never mentioned her to you?”
“To be sure that is very strange,” replied Henrietta, “what could he mean by it?”
“Ah! miss,” said Mrs. Willis, “a very little reflection on Mr. Damer’s behaviour might have informed you that he was in love with you.”
“In love with me!” cried Henrietta, blushing with shame and resentment.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Willis, “in love with you; if that can be called love which seeks the ruin of its object. I saw it in his looks, his words, cautious as they were, his whole behaviour shewed it but too plainly.”
“And this man married too!” cried Henrietta, lifting up her eyes. “To what have I, by one rash step, reduced myself! But still Mrs. Willis, my first difficulty recurs, why did you avoid speaking of his wife to me?”
“Hear me, my dear, with patience,” interrupted Mrs. Willis, “I shall be very free; but my plainness ought not to offend you, since it is a mark of my sincerity.” Mrs. Willis paused here a moment, and then proceeded, as will be found in the following chapter.