The two sisters no sooner discovered the escape of their prey, than, screaming with violent laughter, they began a romping race in its pursuit.
Near the entrance into the hall, Juliet was met by Selina, with commands from Mrs Ireton, that she would either present herself, immediately, to the company; or seek another abode.
In minds of strong sensibility, arrogance rouses resentment more quickly even than injury: a message so gross, an affront so public, required, therefore, no deliberation on the part of Juliet; and she was answering that she would make her preparations to depart; when the Miss Crawleys, rushing suddenly upon her, exclaimed, with clamourous joy, ‘She’s caught! She’s caught! The Ellis is caught!’ and, each of them seizing a hand, they dragged her, with merry violence, into the breakfast-room.
Her hoydening conductors failed not to excite the attention of the whole assembly; though it fell not, after the first glance, upon themselves. Juliet, to whom exercise and confusion gave added beauty; and whom no disorder of attire could rob of an air of decency, which, inherent in her nature, was always striking in her demeanor; was no sooner seen, than, whether with censure or applause, she monopolized all remark.
Mrs Ireton haughtily bid her approach.
Averse, yet unwilling to risk the consequences of a public breach, she slowly advanced.
‘I am afraid, Ma’am,’ said Mrs Ireton, with a smile of derision; ‘I am afraid, Ma’am, you have hurried yourself? It is not much above an hour, I believe, since I did myself the honour of sending for you. I have no conception how you have been able to arrive so soon! Pray how far do you think it may be from hence to the Temple? ten or twelve yards, I verily believe! You must really be ready to expire!’
Having constrained herself to hear thus much, Juliet conceived that the duty even of her humble station could require no more; she made, therefore, a slight reverence, with intention to withdraw. But Mrs Ireton, offended, cried, ‘Whither may you be going, Ma’am?—And pray, Ma’am,—if I may take the liberty to ask such a question,—who told you to go?—Was it I?—Did any body hear me?—Did you, Lady Arramede?—or you, Miss Brinville?—or only Miss Ellis herself? For, to be sure I must have done it: I take that for granted: she would not, certainly, think of going without leave, after I have sent for her. So I make no doubt but I did it. Though I can’t think how it happened, I own. ’Twas perfectly without knowing it, I confess. In some fit of absence—perhaps in my sleep;—for I have slept, too, perhaps, without knowing it!’
Sarcasms so witty, uttered by a lady at an assembly in her own house, could not fail of being received with applause; and Mrs Ireton, looking around her triumphantly, regarded the disconcerted Juliet as a completely vanquished vassal. In a tone, therefore, that marked the most perfect self-satisfaction, ‘Pray, Ma’am,’ she continued, ‘for what might you suppose I did myself the favour to want you? was it only to take a view of your new costume? ’Tis very careless and picturesque, to be sure, to rove abroad in that agreeable dishabille, just like the “maiden all forlorn;” or rather to speak with mere exactitude, like the “man all tattered and torn,” for ’tis more properly his costume you adopt, than the neat, tidy maiden’s.’
The warm-hearted young Lady Barbara, all pity and feeling for Juliet, here broke from her quiet and cautious aunt, and, with irrepressible eagerness, exclaimed, ‘Mrs Ireton, ’twas Mr Loddard, your own little naughty nephew, who deranged in that manner the dress of that elegant Miss Ellis.’
The Miss Crawleys, now, running to the little boy, called out, ‘The Loddard! the Loddard! ’tis the Loddard has set up the new costume!’
Mrs Ireton, though affecting to laugh, had now done with the subject; and, while she was taking a pinch of snuff, to gain time to suggest some other, Sir Jaspar Herrington, advancing to Juliet, said, ‘Has this young lady no place?’ and, gallantly taking her hand, he led her to his own chair, and walked to another part of the room.
A civility such as this from Sir Jaspar, made all the elders of the company stare, and all the younger titter; but the person the most surprized was Mrs Ireton, who hastily called out, ‘Miss Ellis would not do such a thing! Take Sir Jaspar’s own seat! That has his own particular cushions! She could not do such a thing! I should think not, at least! I may judge ill, but I should think not. A seat prepared for Sir Jaspar by my own order! Miss Ellis can dispense with having an easy chair, and three cushions, I should presume! I may be wrong, to be sure, but I should presume so!’
‘Madam,’ answered Sir Jaspar, ‘in days of old, I never could bear to sit, when I saw a lady standing; and though those days are past, alas! and gone,—still I cannot, even to escape a twitch of the gout, see a fair female neglected, without feeling a twitch of another kind, that gives me yet greater pain.’
‘Your politeness, Sir Jaspar,’ replied Mrs Ireton, ‘we all know; and, if it were for one of my guests,—but Miss Ellis can hardly desire, I should suppose, to see you drop down with fatigue, while she is reposing upon your arm-chair. Not that I pretend to know her way of thinking! I don’t mean that. I don’t mean to have it imagined I have the honour of her confidence; but I should rather suppose she could not insist upon turning you out of your seat, only to give you a paroxysm of the gout.’
However internally moved, Juliet endured this harangue in total silence; convinced that where all authority is on the side of the aggressor, resistance only provokes added triumph. Her looks, therefore, though they shewed her to be hurt and offended, evinced a dignified forbearance, superiour to the useless reproach, and vain retaliation, of unequal contention.
She rose, nevertheless, from the seat which she had only momentarily, and from surprise occupied, and would have quitted the room, but that she saw she should again be publicly called back; and hers was not a situation for braving open enmity. She thankfully, however, accepted a chair which was brought to her by Sir Marmaduke Crawley, and placed next to that which had been vacated by the old Baronet; who then returned to his own.
She now hoped to find some support from his countenance; as his powerful situation in the house, joined to his age, would make his smallest attention prove to her a kind of protection. Her expectation, however, was disappointed: he did not address to her a word; or appear to have ever beheld her before; and his late act of politeness seemed exerted for a perfect stranger, from habitual good breeding.
And is it you, thought the pensive Juliet, who, but a few minutes since, spoke to me with such flattery, such preference? with an even impassioned regard? And shall this so little assembly guide and awe you? There, where I wished upon me your compliments;—while here, where a smile would be encouragement, where notice would be charity, you affect to have forgotten, or appear never to have seen me! Ah! mentally continued the silent moralist, if we reflected upon the difficulty of gaining esteem; upon the chances against exciting affection; upon the union of time and circumstance necessary for obtaining sincere regard; we should require courage to withhold, not to follow, the movement of kindness, that, where distress sighs for succour, where helplessness solicits support, gives power to the smallest exertion, to a single word, to a passing smile,—to bestow a favour, and to do a service, that catch, in the brief space of a little moment, a gratitude that never dies!
But, while thus to be situated, was pain and dejection to Juliet, to see her seated, however unnoticed, in the midst of this society, was almost equally irksome to Mrs Ireton; who, after some vain internal fretting, ordered the butler to carry about refreshments; consoled with the certainty, that he would as little dare present any to Juliet, as omit to present them to every one else.
The smiles and best humour of Mrs Ireton now soon returned; for the dependent state of Juliet became more than ever conspicuous, when thus decidedly she was marked as the sole person, in a large assembly, that the servants were permitted, if not instructed to neglect.
Juliet endeavoured to sit tranquil, and seem unconcerned; but her fingers were in continual motion; her eyes, meaning to look no where, looked every where; and Mrs Ireton had the gratification to perceive, that, however she struggled for indifference, she was fully sensible of the awkwardness of her situation.
But this was no sooner remarked by Lady Barbara Frankland, than, starting with vivacity from her vainly watchful aunt, she flew to her former instructress, crying, ‘Have you taken nothing yet, Miss Ellis? O pray, then, let me chuse your ice for you?’
She ran to a side-board, and selecting the colour most pleasing to her eyes, hastened with it to the blushing, but relieved and grateful Juliet; to whom this benevolent attention seemed instantly to restore the self-command, that pointed indignities, and triumphant derision, were sinking into abashed depression.
The sensation produced by this action in Mrs Ireton, was as ungenial as that which it caused to Juliet was consolatory. She could not for a moment endure to see the creature of her power, whom she looked upon as destined for the indulgence of her will, and the play of her authority, receive a mark of consideration which, if shewn even to herself, would have been accepted as a condescension. Abruptly, therefore, while they were standing together, and conversing, she called out, ‘Is it possible, Miss Ellis, that you can see the child in such imminent danger, and stay there amusing yourself?’
Lady Kendover hastily called off her young niece; and Juliet, sighing crossed over the room, to take charge of the little boy, who was sitting astraddle out of one of the windows.
‘But I had flattered myself,’ cried Sir Marmaduke Crawley, addressing Mrs Ireton, ‘that we should have a little music?’
Mrs Ireton, to whom the talents of Juliet gave pleasure in proportion only to her own repugnance to bringing them into play, had relinquished the projected performance, when she perceived the general interest which was excited by the mere appearance of the intended performer. She declared herself, therefore, so extremely fearful lest some mischief should befall her little nephew, that she could not possibly trust him from the care of Miss Ellis.
Half the company, now, urged by the thirst of fresh amusement, professed the most passionate fondness for children, and offered their services to watch the dear, sweet little boy, while Miss Ellis should play or sing; but the averseness] of Ellis remained uncombated by Mrs Ireton, and, therefore, unconquered.
The party was preparing to break up, when Mr Giles Arbe entered the room, to apologize for the non-appearance of Miss Arbe, his cousin, who had bid him bring words, he said, that she was taken ill.
Ireton, by a few crafty questions, soon drew from him, that Miss Arbe was only gone to a little private music-meeting at Miss Sycamore’s: though, affrighted when he had made the confession, he entreated Mrs Ireton not to take it amiss; protesting that it was not done in any disrespect to her, but merely because his cousin was more amused at Miss Sycamore’s.
Mrs Ireton, extremely piqued, answered, that she should be very careful, in future, not to presume to make an invitation to Miss Arbe, but in a total dearth of other entertainment; in a famine; or public fast.
But, the moment he sauntered into another room, to partake of some refreshments, ‘That old savage,’ she cried, ‘is a perfect horrour! He has not a single atom of common sense; and if he were not Miss Arbe’s cousin, one must tell one’s butler to shew him the door. At least, such is my poor opinion. I don’t pretend to be a judge; but such is my notion!’
‘O! I adore him!’ cried Miss Crawley. ‘He makes me laugh till I am ready to die! He has never a guess what he is about; and he never hears a word one says. And he stares so when one laughs at him! O! he’s the delightfullest, stupidest, dear wretch that breathes!’
‘O! I can’t look at him without laughing!’ exclaimed Miss Di. ‘He’s the best thing in nature! He’s delicious! enchanting! delightful! O! so dear a fool!’
‘He is quite unfit,’ said Mrs Maple, ‘for society; for he says every thing that comes uppermost, and has not the least idea of what is due to people.’
‘O! he is the sweetest-tempered, kindest-hearted creature in the world!’ exclaimed Lady Barbara. ‘My aunt’s woman has heard, from Miss Arbe’s maid, all his history. He has quite ruined himself by serving poor people in distress. He is so generous, he can never pronounce a refusal.’
‘But he dresses so meanly,’ said Miss Brinville, ‘that mamma and I have begged Miss Arbe not to bring him any more to see us. Besides,—he tells every thing in the world to every body.’
‘Poor Miss Arbe a’n’t to blame, I assure you, Miss Brinville,’ said Selina; ‘for she dislikes him as much as you do; only when her papa invited him to live with them, he was very rich; and it was thought he would leave all his fortune to them. But, since then, Miss Arbe says, he is grown quite poor; for he has dawdled away almost all his money, in one way or another; letting folks out of prison, setting people up in business, and all that.’
‘O! he’s the very king of quizzes!’ cried Ireton. ‘He drags me out of the spleen, when I feel as if there were no possibility I could yawn on another half hour.’
Sir Jaspar now, looking with an air of authority towards Ireton, said, ‘It would have been your good star, not your evil genius, by which you would have been guided, Mr Ireton, had you been attracted to this old gentleman as to an example, rather than as a butt for your wit. He has very good parts, if he knew how to make use of them; though he has a simplicity of manners, that induces common observers to conclude him to be nearly an ideot. And, indeed, an absent man seems always in a state of childhood; for as he is never occupied with what is present, those who think of nothing else, naturally take it for granted that what passes is above his comprehension; when perhaps, it is only below his attention. But with Mr Arbe, though his temper is incomparably good and placid, absence is neither want of understanding, nor of powers of observation; for, when once he is awakened to what is passing, by any thing that touches his feelings of humanity, or his sense of justice, his seeming stupor turns to energy; his silence is superseded by eloquence; and his gentle diffidence is supplanted by a mental courage, which electrifies with surprize, from its contrast with his general docility; and which strikes, and even awes, from an apparent dignity of defying consequence;—though, in fact, it is but the effect of never weighing them. Such, however, as he is, Mr Ireton, with the singularities of his courage, or the oddities of his passiveness, he is a man who is useful to the world, from his love of doing good; and hap............