Our party, on the 5th of November,
passed off very well, in spite
of Mrs. Graham's refusal to grace
it with her presence. Indeed,
it is probable that, had she
been there, there would have
been less cordiality, freedom,
and frolic amongst us than there
was without
her.
My mother, as usual, was cheerful
and chatty, full of activity
and good-nature, and only faulty
in being too anxious to make
her guests happy, thereby forcing
several of them to do what their
soul abhorred in the way of eating
or drinking, sitting opposite
the blazing fire, or talking
when they would be silent. Nevertheless,
they bore it very well, being
all in their holiday humours.
Mr. Millward was mighty in
important dogmas and sententious
jokes, pompous anecdotes and
oracular discourses, dealt out
for the edification of the whole
assembly in general, and of the
admiring Mrs. Markham, the polite
Mr. Lawrence, the sedate Mary
Millward, the quiet Richard Wilson,
and the matter-of-fact Robert
in particular, - as being the
most attentive listeners.
Mrs. Wilson was more brilliant
than ever, with her budgets of
fresh news and old scandal, strung
together with trivial questions
and remarks, and oft-repeated
observations, uttered apparently
for the sole purpose of denying
a moment's rest to her inexhaustible
organs of speech. She had brought
her knitting with her, and it
seemed as if her tongue had laid
a wager with her fingers, to
outdo them in swift and ceaseless
motion.
Her daughter Jane was, of course,
as graceful and elegant, as witty
and seductive, as she could possibly
manage to be; for here were all
the ladies to outshine, and all
the gentlemen to charm, - and
Mr. Lawrence, especially, to
capture and subdue. Her little
arts to effect his subjugation
were too subtle and impalpable
to attract my observation; but
I thought there was a certain
refined affectation of superiority,
and an ungenial self-consciousness
about her, that negatived all
her advantages; and after she
was gone, Rose interpreted to
me her various looks, words,
and actions with a mingled acuteness
and asperity that made me wonder,
equally, at the lady's artifice
and my sister's penetration,
and ask myself if she too had
an eye to the squire - but never
mind, Halford; she had not.
Richard Wilson, Jane's younger
brother, sat in a corner, apparently
good-tempered, but silent and
shy, desirous to escape observation,
but willing enough to listen
and observe: and, although somewhat
out of his element, he would
have been happy enough in his
own quiet way, if my mother could
only have let him alone; but
in her mistaken kindness, she
would keep persecuting him with
her attentions - pressing upon
him all manner of viands, under
the notion that he was too bashful
to help himself, and obliging
him to shout across the room
his monosyllabic replies to the
numerous questions and observations
by which she vainly attempted
to draw him into conversation.
Rose informed me that he never
would have favoured us with his
company but for the importunities
of his sister Jane, who was most
anxious to show Mr. Lawrence
that she had at least one brother
more gentlemanly and refined
than Robert. That worthy individual
she had been equally solicitous
to keep away; but he affirmed
that he saw no reason why he
should not enjoy a crack with
Markham and the old lady (my
mother was not old, really),
and bonny Miss Rose and the parson,
as well as the best; - and he
was in the right of it too. So
he talked common-place with my
mother and Rose, and discussed
parish affairs with the vicar,
farming matters with me, and
politics with us both.
Mary Millward was another mute,
- not so much tormented with
cruel kindness as Dick Wilson,
because she had a certain short,
decided way of answering and
refusing, and was supposed to
be rather sullen than diffident.
However that might be, she certainly
did not give much pleasure to
the company; - nor did she appear
to derive much from it. Eliza
told me she had only come because
her father insisted upon it,
having taken it into his head
that she devoted herself too
exclusively to her household
duties, to the neglect of such
relaxations and innocent enjoyments
as were proper to her age and
sex. She seemed to me to be good-humoured
enough on the whole. Once or
twice she was provoked to laughter
by the wit or the merriment of
some favoured individual amongst
us; and then I observed she sought
the eye of Richard Wilson, who
sat over against her. As he studied
with her father, she had some
acquaintance with him, in spite
of the retiring habits of both,
and I suppose there was a kind
of fellow-feeling established
between them.
My Eliza was charming beyond
description, coquettish without
affectation, and evidently more
desirous to engage my attention
than that of all the room besides.
Her delight in having me near
her, seated or standing by her
side, whispering in her ear,
or pressing her hand in the dance,
was plainly legible in her glowing
face and heaving bosom, however
belied by saucy words and gestures.
But I had better hold my tongue:
if I boast of these things now,
I shall have to blush hereafter.
To proceed, then, with the
various individuals of our party;
Rose was simple and natural as
usual, and full of mirth and
vivacity.
Fergus was impertinent and
absurd; but his impertinence
and folly served to make others
laugh, if they did not raise
himself in their estimation.
And finally (for I omit myself),
Mr. Lawrence was gentlemanly
and inoffensive to all, and polite
to the vicar and the ladies,
especially his hostess and her
daughter, and Miss Wilson - misguided
man; he had not the taste to
prefer Eliza Millward. Mr. Lawrence
and I were on tolerably intimate
terms. Essentially of reserved
habits, and but seldom quitting
the secluded place of his birth,
where he had lived in solitary
state since the death of his
father, he had neither the opportunity
nor the inclination for forming
many acquaintances; and, of all
he had ever known, I (judging
by the results) was the companion
most agreeable to his taste.
I liked the man well enough,
but he was too cold, and shy,
and self-contained, to obtain
my cordial sympathies. A spirit
of candour and frankness, when
wholly unaccompanied with coarseness,
he admired in others, but he
could not acquire it himself.
His excessive reserve upon all
his own concerns was, indeed,
provoking and chilly enough;
but I forgave it, from a conviction
that it originated less in pride
and want of confidence in his
friends, than in a certain morbid
feeling of delicacy, and a peculiar
diffidence, that he was sensible
of, but wanted energy to overcome.
His heart was like a sensitive
plant, that opens for a moment
in the sunshine, but curls up
and shrinks into itself at the
slightest touch of the finger,
or the lightest breath of wind.
And, upon the whole, our intimacy
was rather a mutual predilection
than a deep and solid friendship,
such as has since arisen between
myself and you, Halford, whom,
in spite of your occasional crustiness,
I can liken to nothing so well
as an old coat, unimpeachable
in texture, but easy and loose
- that has conformed itself to
the shape of the wearer, and
which he may use as he pleases,
without being bothered with the
fear of spoiling it; - whereas
Mr. Lawrence was like a new garment,
all very neat and trim to look
at, but so tight in the elbows,
that you would fear to split
the seams by the unrestricted
motion of your arms, and so smooth
and fine in surface that you
scruple to expose it to a single
drop of rain.
Soon after the arrival of the
guests, my mother mentioned Mrs.
Graham, regretted she was not
there to meet them, and explained
to the Millwards and Wilsons
the reasons she had given for
neglecting to return their calls,
hoping they would excuse her,
as she was sure she did not mean
to be uncivil, and would be glad
to see them at any time. - 'But
she is a very singular lady,
Mr. Lawrence,' added she; 'we
don't know what to make of her
- but I daresay you can tell
us something about her, for she
is your tenant, you know, - and
she said she knew you a little.'
All eyes were turned to Mr.
Lawrence. I thought he looked
unnecessarily confused at being
so appealed to.
'I, Mrs. Markham!' said he;
'you are mistaken - I don't -
that is - I have seen her, certainly;
but I am the last person you
should apply to for information
respecting Mrs. Graham.'
He then immediately turned
to Rose, and asked her to favour
the company with a song, or a
tune on the piano.
'No,' said she, 'you must ask
Miss Wilson: she outshines us
all in singing, and music too.'
Miss Wilson demurred.
'She'll sing readily enough,'
said Fergus, 'if you'll undertake
to stand by her, Mr. Lawrence,
and turn over the leaves for
her.'
'I shall be most happy to do
so, Miss Wilson; will you allow
me?'
She bridled her long neck and
smiled, and suffered him to lead
her to the instrument, where
she played and sang, in her very
best style, one piece after another;
while he stood patiently by,
leaning one hand on the back
of her chair, and turning over
the leaves of her book with the
other. Perhaps he was as much
charmed with her performance
as she was. It was all very fine
in its way; but I cannot say
that it moved me very deeply.
There was plenty of skill and
execution, but precious little
feeling.
But we had not done with Mrs.
Graham yet.
'I don't take wine, Mrs. Markham,'
said Mr. Millward, upon the introduction
of that beverage; 'I'll take
a little of your home- brewed
ale. I always prefer your home-brewed
to anything else.'
Flattered at this compliment,
my mother rang the bell, and
a china jug of our best ale was
presently brought and set before
the worthy gentleman who so well
knew how to appreciate its excellences.
'Now THIS is the thing!' cried
he, pouring out a glass of the
same in a long stream, skilfully
directed from the jug to the
tumbler, so as to produce much
foam without spilling a drop;
and, having surveyed it for a
moment opposite the candle, he
took a deep draught, and then
smacked his lips, drew a long
breath, and refilled his glass,
my mother looking on with the
greatest satisfaction.
'There's nothing like this,
Mrs. Markham!' said he. 'I always
maintain that there's nothing
to compare with your home-brewed
ale.'
'I'm sure I'm glad you like
it, sir. I always look after
the brewing myself, as well as
the cheese and the butter - I
like to have things well done,
while we're about it.'
'Quite right, Mrs. Markham!'
'But then, Mr. Millward, you
don't think it wrong to take
a little wine now and then -
or a little spirits either!'
said my mother, as she handed
a smoking tumbler of gin-and-water
to Mrs. Wilson, who affirmed
that wine sat heavy on her stomach,
and whose son Robert was at that
moment helping himself to a pretty
stiff glass of the same.
'By no means!' replied the
oracle, with a Jove-like nod;
'these things are all blessings
and mercies, if we only knew
how to make use of them.'
'But Mrs. Graham doesn't think
so. You shall just hear now what
she told us the other day - I
told her I'd tell you.'
And my mother favoured the
company with a particular account
of that lady's mistaken ideas
and conduct regarding the matter
in hand, concluding with, 'Now,
don't you think it is wrong?'
'Wrong!' repeated the vicar,
with more than common solemnity
- 'criminal, I should say - criminal!
Not only is it making a fool
of the boy, but it is despising
the gifts of Providence, and
teaching him to trample them
under his feet.'
He then entered more fully
into the question, and explained
at large the folly and impiety
of such a proceeding. My mother
heard him with profoundest reverence;
and even Mrs. Wilson vouchsafed
to rest her tongue for a moment,
and listen in silence, while
she complacently sipped her gin-and-water.
Mr. Lawrence sat with his elbow
on the table, carelessly playing
with his half-empty wine- glass,
and covertly smiling to himself.
'But don't you think, Mr. Millward,'
suggested he, when at length
that gentleman paused in his
discourse, 'that when a child
may be naturally prone to intemperance
- by the fault of its parents
or ancestors, for instance -
some precautions are advisable?'
(Now it was generally believed
that Mr. Lawrence's father had
shortened his days by intemperance.)
'Some precautions, it may be;
but temperance, sir, is one thing,
and abstinence another.'
'But I have heard that, with
some persons, temperance - that
is, moderation - is almost impossible;
and if abstinence be an evil
(which some have doubted), no
one will deny that excess is
a greater. Some parents have
entirely prohibited their children
from tasting intoxicating liquors;
but a parent's authority cannot
last for ever; children are naturally
prone to hanker after forbidden
things; and a child, in such
a case, would be likely to have
a strong curiosity to taste,
and try the effect of what has
been so lauded and enjoyed by
others, so strictly forbidden
to himself - which curiosity
would generally be gratified
on the first convenient opportunity;
and the restraint once broken,
serious consequences might ensue.
I don't pretend to be a judge
of such matters, but it seems
to me, that this plan of Mrs.
Graham's, as you describe it,
Mrs. Markham, extraordinary as
it may be, is not without its
advantages; for here you see
the child is delivered at once
from temptation; he has no secret
curiosity, no hankering desire;
he is as well acquainted with
the tempting liquors as he ever
wishes to be; and is thoroughly
disgusted with them, without
having suffered from their effects.'
'And is that right, sir? Have
I not proven to you how wrong
it is - how contrary to Scripture
and to reason, to teach a child
to look with contempt and disgust
upon the blessings of Providence,
instead of to use them aright?'
'You may consider laudanum
a blessing of Providence, sir,'
replied Mr. Lawrence, smiling;
'and yet, you will allow that
most of us had better abstain
from it, even in moderation;
but,' added he, 'I would not
desire you to follow out my simile
too closely - in witness whereof
I finish my glass.'
'And take another, I hope,
Mr. Lawrence,' said my mother,
pushing the bottle towards him.
He politely declined, and pushing
his chair a little away from
the table, leant back towards
me - I was seated a trifle behind,
on the sofa beside Eliza Millward
- and carelessly asked me if
I knew Mrs. Graham.
'I have met her once or twice,'
I replied.
'What do you think of her?'
'I cannot say that I like her
much. She is handsome - or rather
I should say distinguished and
interesting - in her appearance,
but by no means amiable - a woman
liable to take strong prejudices,
I should fancy, and stick to
them through thick and thin,
twisting everything into conformity
with her own preconceived opinions
- too hard, too sharp, too bitter
for my taste.'
He made no reply, but looked
down and bit his lip, and shortly
after rose and sauntered up to
Miss Wilson, as much repelled
by me, I fancy, as attracted
by her. I scarcely noticed it
at the time, but afterwards I
was led to recall this and other
trifling facts, of a similar
nature, to my remembrance, when
- but I must not anticipate.
We wound up the evening with
dancing - our worthy pastor thinking
it no scandal to be present on
the occasion, though one of the
village musicians was engaged
to direct our evolutions with
his violin. But Mary Millward
obstinately refused to join us;
and so did Richard Wilson, though
my mother earnestly entreated
him to do so, and even offered
to be his partner.
We managed very well without
them, however. With a single
set of quadrilles, and several
country dances, we carried it
on to a pretty late hour; and
at length, having called upon
our musician to strike up a waltz,
I was just about to whirl Eliza
round in that delightful dance,
accompanied by Lawrence and Jane
Wilson, and Fergus and Rose,
when Mr. Millward interposed
with:- 'No, no; I don't allow
that! Come, it's time to be going
now.'
'Oh, no, papa!' pleaded Eliza.
'High
time, my girl
- high time!
Moderation
in all things,
remember! That's the plan - "Let
your moderation be known unto
all men!"'
But in revenge I followed Eliza
into the dimly-lighted passage,
where, under pretence of helping
her on with her shawl, I fear
I must plead guilty to snatching
a kiss behind her father's back,
while he was enveloping his throat
and chin in the folds of a mighty
comforter. But alas! in turning
round, there was my mother close
beside me. The consequence was,
that no sooner were the guests
departed, than I was doomed to
a very serious remonstrance,
which unpleasantly checked the
galloping course of my spirits,
and made a disagreeable close
to the evening.
'My dear Gilbert,' said she,
'I wish you wouldn't do so! You
know how deeply I have your advantage
at heart, how I love you and
prize you above everything else
in the world, and how much I
long to see you well settled
in life - and how bitterly it
would grieve me to see you married
to that girl - or any other in
the neighbourhood. What you see
in her I don't know. It isn't
only the want of money that I
think about - nothing of the
kind - but there's neither beauty,
nor cleverness, nor goodness,
nor anything else that's desirable.
If you knew your own value, as
I do, you wouldn't dream of it.
Do wait awhile and see! If you
bind yourself to her, you'll
repent it all your lifetime when
you look round and see how many
better there are. Take my word
for it, you will.'
'Well, mother, do be quiet!
- I hate to be lectured! - I'm
not going to marry yet, I tell
you; but - dear me! mayn't I
enjoy myself at all?'
'Yes, my dear boy, but not
in that way. Indeed, you shouldn't
do such things. You would be
wronging the girl, if she were
what she ought to be; but I assure
you she is as artful a little
hussy as anybody need wish to
see; and you'll got entangled
in her snares before you know
where you are. And if you marry
her, Gilbert, you'll break my
heart - so there's an end of
it.'
'Well, don't cry about it,
mother,' said I, for the tears
were gushing from her eyes; 'there,
let that kiss efface the one
I gave Eliza; don't abuse her
any more, and set your mind at
rest; for I'll promise never
- that is, I'll promise to think
twice before I take any important
step you seriously disapprove
of.'
So saying, I lighted my candle,
and went to bed, considerably
quenched in spirit.
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