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 am sure 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 folly; 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. Autumn: “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 fretfulness and disgust at the follies she was forced to be witness to.
Mrs. Autumn, like other modern ladies, 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 dishabille25 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 wife, 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.26
“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 is much more so to be obliged to answer them.