The generous behaviour of Sophia towards her aunt.
Sophia kept silence during the foregoing speech of her father, nor did
she once answer otherwise than with a sigh; but as he understood none
of the language, or, as he called it, lingo of the eyes, so he was not
satisfied without some further approbation of his sentiments, which he
now demanded of his daughter; telling her, in the usual way, “he
expected she was ready to take the part of everybody against him, as
she had always done that of the b-- her mother.” Sophia remaining
still silent, he cryed out, “What, art dumb? why dost unt speak? Was
not thy mother a d--d b-- to me? answer me that. What, I suppose you
despise your father too, and don't think him good enough to speak to?”
“For Heaven's sake, sir,” answered Sophia, “do not give so cruel a
turn to my silence. I am sure I would sooner die than be guilty of any
disrespect towards you; but how can I venture to speak, when every
word must either offend my dear papa, or convict me of the blackest
ingratitude as well as impiety to the memory of the best of mothers;
for such, I am certain, my mamma was always to me?”
“And your aunt, I suppose, is the best of sisters too!” replied the
squire. “Will you be so kind as to allow that she is a b--? I may
fairly insist upon that, I think?”
“Indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have great obligations to my aunt. She
hath been a second mother to me.”
“And a second wife to me too,” returned Western; “so you will take her
part too! You won't confess that she hath acted the part of the vilest
sister in the world?”
“Upon my word, sir,” cries Sophia, “I must belie my heart wickedly if
I did. I know my aunt and you differ very much in your ways of
thinking; but I have heard her a thousand times express the greatest
affection for you; and I am convinced, so far from her being the worst
sister in the world, there are very few who love a brother better.”
“The English of all which is,” answered the squire, “that I am in the
wrong. Ay, certainly. Ay, to be sure the woman is in the right, and
the man in the wrong always.”
“Pardon me, sir,” cries Sophia. “I do not say so.”
“What don't you say?” answered the father: “you have the impudence to
say she's in the right: doth it not follow then of course that I am in
the wrong? And perhaps I am in the wrong to suffer such a Presbyterian
Hanoverian b-- to come into my house. She may 'dite me of a plot for
anything I know, and give my estate to the government.”
“So far, sir, from injuring you or your estate,” says Sophia, “if my
aunt had died yesterday, I am convinced she would have left you her
whole fortune.”
Whether Sophia intended it or no, I shall not presume to assert; but
certain it is, these last words penetrated very deep into the ears of
her father, and produced a much more sensible effect than all she had
said before. He received the sound with much the same action as a man
receives a bullet in his head. He started, staggered, and turned pale.
After which he remained silent above a minute, and then began in the
following hesitating manner: “Yesterday! she would have left me her
esteate yesterday! would she? Why yesterday, of all the days in the
year? I suppose if she dies to-morrow, she will leave it to somebody
else, and perhaps out of the vamily.”--“My aunt, sir,” cries Sophia,
“hath very violent passions, and I can't answer what she may do under
their influence.”
“You can't!” returned the father: “and pray who hath been the occasion
of putting her into those violent passions? Nay, who hath actually put
her into them? Was not you and she hard at it before I came into the
room? Besides, was not all our quarrel about you? I have not
quarrelled with sister this many years but upon your account; and now
you would throw the whole blame upon me, as thof I should be the
occasion of her leaving the esteate out o' the vamily. I could have
expected no better indeed; this is like the return you make to all the
rest of my fondness.”
“I beseech you then,” cries Sophia, “upon my knees I beseech you, if I
have been the unhappy occasion of this difference, that you will
endeavour to make it up with my aunt, and not suffer her to leave your
house in this violent rage of anger: she is a very good-natured woman,
and a few civil words will satisfy her. Let me entreat you, sir.”
“So I must go and ask pardon for your fault, must I?” answered
Western. “You have lost the hare, and I must draw every way to find
her again? Indeed, if I was certain”--Here he stopt, and Sophia
throwing in more entreaties, at length prevailed upon him; so that
after venting two or three bitter sarcastical expressions against his
daughter, he departed as fast as he could to recover his sister,
before her equipage could be gotten ready.
Sophia then returned to her chamber of mourning, where she indulged
herself (if the phrase may be allowed me) in all the luxury of tender
grief. She read over more than once the letter which she had received
from Jones; her muff too was used on this occasion; and she bathed
both these, as well as herself, with her tears. In this situation the
friendly Mrs Honour exerted her utmost abilities to comfort her
afflicted mistress. She ran over the names of many young gentlemen:
and having greatly commended their parts and persons, assured Sophia
that she might take her choice of any. These methods must have
certainly been used with some success in disorders of the like kind,
or so skilful a practitioner as Mrs Honour would never have ventured
to apply them; nay, I have heard that the college of chambermaids hold
them to be as sovereign remedies as any in the female dispensary; but
whether it was that Sophia's disease differed inwardly from those
cases with which it agreed in external symptoms, I will not assert;
but, in fact, the good waiting-woman did more harm than good, and at
last so incensed her mistress (which was no easy matter) that with an
angry voice she dismissed her from her presence.